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POEMS: 



BY 



J 

JOSIAH D'/CANNING 



Sing of New-England, favored land ! 
Her customs dear — her social band — 
Her everlasting hills that stand 

Above her meads, 
As whsn at first, by His command, 

They reared their heads ! — 
Vision of Poesy, page 21 . 



5 GREENFIELD : (MASS.) 
PHELPS & INGERSOLE, PRINTERS 

1838. 



INDEX. 



Page. 

Apostrophe to New-England. - - 92 

A Vision. .... - 44 

A Sketch from Life. - 32 

Autumn. ..... 56 

A Tale of other days. - - - 116 

Aurora Borealis. .... 138 

A Dirge to Autumn on the last day of 

November. .... 141 

A Fragment .... 88 

A charitable Epitaph. ... 156 

Amor Patriae — a fragment. - - 201 

A Poor Man's Epitaph. 205 

By Umpachena's rushing stream. - 94 
Dedication to every true New-Englan= 
der, more especially the Sons of 

Massachusetts. .... 7 

Death Song. - - - - 98 

Day Dreams — no fiction. - - 163 
Despondency over blighted hopes and 

wintry prospects. ... 150 

Epistle to a Brother in Virginia. 27 

Epistle to T. S********. • - 62 
Epistle to Rev. Jno. Mitchell, after the 
publication of his celebrated Fast 

Sermon. 121 



IV INDEX. 

Page. 

Epistle to a Young Lady. - - 144 

Epistle to Swan, musical composer, and 
author of an admirable old piece 
called 'China.' .... 157 

Elegy, on visiting the grave of E. Smith, 
Esq. in the south parish of New- 
Marlborough, Berkshire. - 78 

Epigram. ------ 96 

Epitaph on a certain lawyer. - - 149 

Epitaph on a noted hypocrite. - - 149 
Epitaph on a lady famed for her virtues 140 
Fire-side Musings during a cold rain 

storm in November • - 23 

Farewell to the Valley ! - - 154 

Fragment of an unfinished poem. - 159 

Fragment. ----- 69 

Happiness — an Acrostic. - 84 

Invocation of the Muses. - 79 

Independence. ... - 65 

Inferior animals afford instruction to 

man. ----- 185 

Lines written beneath an Indian moon 

west of the Mississippi. - 81 

Lines to a Bullet. - 89 

Letter to the Rev. D. Smith, Durham^ 
(Ct.) with the request of a revolu- 
tionary relic. - - - 95 
Letter to the editors of the old county 

paper. - 

Logan. ------ 85 

Life — its discontents. - ■ - 40 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady, in- 
closing a volume. - - - §03 
Lines written in a Bible. - - - 192 
Massachusetts. ... - 126 



160 



INDEX. V 
Page. 

My patriot fathers, where are ye ? - 87 

"Midsummer Night's Dream." - 178 

Monody, written in a grave-yard. - 193 
Morning Prayer on getting out of bed 

at a friend's house. - 202 

On reading Beattie's Minstrel 61 

Oft in the silent watches of the night 99 

On the fall of a mighty oak. - 136 

On a certain inveterate prater. - - 146 

On a certain Lawyer. - 149 

Ode to Adversity. . - - 166 

On viewing a Ruined Habitation. - 141 

Proverbs XX, 3. . - - . 72 

Retrospection. . - - - 91 

Solitude. 82 

Second Epistle to Jno. Frissell, M. D. 147 

Second Epistle to Minstrel Swan. - 186 

The Return. 49 

The Prairie Cock — a true story. - 97 

To iEolus. 70 

The First Psalm. .... 77 

The Wisconsin Moon. ... 36 
To a Mink j on seeing one in the Wa- 

pesapenacon. - 67 

The Prophecy. 9 

The Review. .... 101 
To a Pet Lamb, lamenting the death of 

its mate. 123 

To the "Salt" of ****. - 124 
To those whom it may concern. - - 131 
To Hypochondria, seen in prospective. 143 
The character of a certain mischief- 
making person given in short. - 149 
The Indian gone ! 167 
To my Fiddle. - 168 



VI INDEX. 

Page. 

To Tobacco. 190 

To a Blackbird singing on the ides of 

March. ----- 196 

To a Wild Rose. .... 200 

Vision of Poesy. - 17 

Verses to an Aboriginal Relic. - - 197 

"Wealth maketh many friends." - 75 

Written in a skiff on Connecticut river. 139 
Written in an Album beneath a print 

representing a water scene. - - 100 
Written extempore on the blank leaf of 

a Bible on board of a canal boat 125 

Winter. ..... 171 

Ye woodlands mourn, ye fields^ &c* 94 



DEDICATION 

TO EVERY TRUE NEW-ENGLANDER, 

MORE ESPECIALLY THE 

SONS OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

Gentlemen : 

I come not before you an obsequious flatterer, 
polished by rule and pleasing by art ; my muse 
sprang from the green turf, and is clad in the rus- 
set garb of the plough. I come not boasting se- 
raphic numbers and angelic strains ; mine is the 
oaten reed — I have blown thereon the artless airs 
of simplicity. The Muse found me beneath the 
broad canopy of heaven, and hailed me in the mel- 
ody of Nature and the wild scenery of floods and 
fields. She saw me the scion of revolutionary sires 
who "sought with the sword placid rest under Lib- 
erty,'' and bade me cherish their memory and that 
of their brave coadjutors in arms ; and to fan with 
Vestal vigilance the flame of patriotism which 
warmed their own noble hearts. She saw me look- 
ing with pity upon the fanatical zeal of some, and 
the misguided philanthropy of others, and with 
scorn upon the heart-sickening insolence of vanity 
and self-conceit — and taking me kindly by the 
hand, led me far from the one, and lifted me high 
above the other. She bade me bow with adora- 
tion only to the great Giver of Gifts, good and per- 
fect — the Wellspring of light, liberty and happi- 
ness. In the stillness of seclusion she has prompt- 
ed me to strike my harp in the ears of my coun- 
trymen, if so be they will listen : though iraper- 



Vlll DEDICATION. 



fectly tuned and unpractised the player. Like a 
true confidant I obey. 

I can invent no apologies for my muse. What 
are they, for the most part, but the hypocritical 
pretences of those who seek for compliments ? She 
neither fawns for favor, nor dissembles to please. 
She is before you with all her imperfections and 
merits. Should a sense of the first predominate 
and consign her to unhonored oblivion, I have read 
the severest lesson in the school of adversity— what 
more can move me ? Should she serve to enter- 
tain the social group at "the free fireside of the 
unbought farmer," or beguile the lone hours of 
some wandering son of New-England and excite 
in his bosom endeared recollections of his father 
land ; should she gain to her possessor a name and 
a place among the bards of his country, gratefully 
she acknowledges not having sung in vain. 

To such as love their country with filial affec- 
tion, study to promote her liveliest interests, who 
are strict to guard her honor, and are ready to re- 
present in all lands, and at every time, her great 
principles of character, (for such are my ideas of a 
true New-Englander,) I extend the welcoming 
hand. — "Ye are my brethren V A beneficent 
Providence smile upon you ! 

I have the honor to be, gentlemen, 
A fellow New-Englander, 

And your obedient servant, 

JOS. D. CANNING. 

Gill, Franklin, Mass. April 10, 1838. 



POEMS. 



THE PROPHECY. 

Inscribed to Hon. Daniel Webster, U. S. Senate. 

Most honored sir, my unalloyed respect 

For him who merits well his country's praise ! 
Can generous heart an honest aim reject 1 
"No mercenary bard his homage pays," 

* Nor strikes he yet a lyre of heavenly lays ; 
No flowers of rhetoric his pen adorn — 
He walks with Nature in her simplest ways, 
And boasts himself a true New- England born, 

With whom the sun of life is yet in dewy morn. 

Upon thy banks, Connecticut, 

Alone I pensive strayed ; 
The glimmering day his eye had shut, 

And left the world in shade. 
The harvest day of toil was o'er ; 

To free myself of care 
I sought thy ! 

To stuc 



10 TOEMS. 



Beside the trunk of ancient oak 

I found a mossy seat, 
To mind the rippling wave that broke 

In murmurs at my feet. 
My thoughts o'er different themes diffused^ 

But yet for none concerned— 
Till, like good David, while I mused 

The fire within me burned ! 

I gazed upon the silver tide 

That swept in silence by, 
Its glassy surface spreading wide 

Beneath the starry sky — 
When lo ! to my astonished view, 

Along the winding shore, 
An Indian in his light canoe 

Impelled a noiseless oar. 

The sight itself was wondrous rare 

If nothing else were seen ; 
But now a visionary air 

And strange unearthly mien 
Awakened more my great surprise, 

And filled my mind with awe ! 
I scarce believed my tell-tale eyes 

Were right in what they saw. 

But my surprise to horror grew, 

When with an easy hand 
The Indian wheeled his swift canoe 

And straightway came to land. 
I felt the frozen current creep 

In chilling shudders o'er me, 
W T hen with a graceful, airy leap 

The phantom stood before me ! 



POEMS. 11 

Swift as an arrow were my flight, 

Tho ? quaking sore with dread, 
Had not my Jimbs seemed palsied quite 

And senseless like the dead. 
The men of saws a proverb have 

Which often comes in place : 
"Necessity makes cowards brave" — 

So in the present case. 

The phantom glowered upon me stern — 

I quailed beneath his glance, 
On him bestowing, in return, 

A fearful look askance. 
The robes in which he stood arrayed, 

Were shadows strangely twined, 
And seemed like three-fold gathered shade 

With outline dim defined. 

The longer I observance made, 

The less and less I grew afraid. 

But wholly at a loss to know 

Whether he came as friend or foe — 

Whether a fiend, with fell intent, 

On some infernal errand sent ; 

Or else a sprite that haunts the flood, 

With message of some future good. 

But soon this train of thought was broke — 

With hollow voice the phantom spoke : 

"Brother," quoth he, "whose coming dost thou 
wait, 
That thou shouldst tarry here alone so late? 
What restless passions in thy bosom swell, 
That thou shouldst love the solitude so well ? 
Dost thou with life a hostile warfare wage, 
And hither stray to vent thy foolish rage ?' 



12 POEMS. 

Is sorrow thine — art thou a son of wo ? 
Then, brother, speak — she is my mother, too!" 
Brother, thought I, — the epithet sounds well ! 
Thou bidst me speak, then first of all I'll tell 
This interview I gladly would escape, 
Thou comest in such a "questionable shape/' 
Ghost as thou art, and as I plainly see, \ 

Yet as thou deign'st to converse with me, > 
For information I will answer thee. J 

But just ago, such was my crazy fright, 
I had forgot my purpose here to-night 
My busy thoughts were wandering to and fro 
Throughout the whole wide earth, for au^ht I 

know ; 
I thought of changes Time and men have made 
Since the sun shone where- all before was shade; 
How on the shores of this our native stream 
The whiteman's footsteps woke the Indian's dream; 
How cities flourish where his wigwam stood, 
And Commerce quite supplants him on the flood. 

"Brother," the phantom mournfully replied, 
(And took a sitting posture at my side,) 
"Thou say est well — thy words are very wise. 
I 've seen the cheerful sun and clouded skies ; 
I saw the gath'ring storm before it sped 
To burst its blackness on my fated head ! 
I heard aloof the bellowing thunders roll, 
And dark forebodings filled my troubled soul. 

"Your people are a great and mighty race, 
Skilled in all arts, and polished well in'graee ; 
Ye have traditions written in a book, 
That generations, yet unborn, may look 
Therein for noble deed or famed exploit, 



POEMS. 13 

And you, perhaps, have read of Massasoit, 
1 am the spirit of that ancient chief! 
1 've seen my nation wasted, and with grief 
Have felt the whiteman's 'perfidy ingrate' — 
It turned my fostering kindness into hate. 
When first yon came, a weak and famished band, 
Did I not ope to you a helping hand ? 
And when your feeble numbers quailed to see 
The dark-skinned warriors that surrounded me, 
I made a league to quell your rising fears — 
Which treaty lasted more than fifty years.* 
Is it not so ? how was my love repaid ? 
Extermination drew the reeking blade ! 
Where is my glory now, my kingly pride ? 
Where the staunch band that rallied at my side? 
For a brief space you cherished gratitude, 
(But scarcely then returned good for good,) 
Whereby I gained an everlasting fame — 
You borrowed mine to give your state a name.t 
But avarice soon quenched the vital spark 
Of gratitude, and straightway all was dark ! 
My wide domains, out-spreading far and near, 
Pride of my people— to myself thrice dear — 
From my own grasp slipped speedily away, 
As dries the dew before the beams of day ; 
And when no more the country of our birth 
Gave us a home, heart-sick we left the earth. 

"Yet Massachusetts is my namesake dear, 
And for her sake I fain re-visit here. 
With jealous eye I \e watched her rising power 
E'en from her birth up to the present hour ; 

•See Hoyt's Antiquarian Researches, chap. 1, p 21. 
fTradition tells us that Massachusetts derived its name fr©» 
the old chief Massasoit, the famous friend of the whites. 
1* 



14 POEMS. 

I 've seen her sons in Learning's hails preside, 

Their light of knowledge spreading far and wide ; 

I 've seen her Commerce with her sails unfurl' d 

Wherever waters wash the mighty world ; 

When the great king who ruled beyond the sea 

Unwisely forged his fetters for the free, 

With pride I saw old Massachusetts rise 

And boast her freedom to the vaulted skies ! 

I saw her willing leave the furrowed fi 

And snatch the patriot arms she loved to wield. 

Oh, never may her patriot fire decay ! 

'T would be my chiefest wo to see it die away !" 

The spirit's voice seemed choked with grief, 

And as he paused to rest, 
My heart warmed towards the ancient chief 

As for a welcome guest. 
Thou wast a. patriot, too, thought I, 

And tho' requited ill, 
Our fathers' generous ally, 

Who loves our welfare still. 

Old 31assasoit, I bless thy name ! 

With me thy peace is made ; 
I 've learned thy never-dying fame 

From this thy wandering shade. 
I '11 recollect in future time 

This evening's interview, 
Perhaps to tell of it in rhyme — 

Eut list! he speaks anew : 

"Now, brother, hearken well — before I go 
I'll tell you something which you ne'er would know 
Were not prophetic vision given thee — 
A gift, you know, which scarcely well could be. 



POEMS. 15 

You are aware that to a spirit's eyes 
Time future in a panorama lies, 
Wherein they may behold, at one survey, 
The farthest confines of futurity ; 
May note events in which men will engage 
When Time has rolled his wheels for many an age; 
The rise and fall of empires, too, they see, 
Long e'er on earth those empires disagree. 

"Peace came at last, and hushed were war's 
alarms, 
And victory reposed upon your arms. 
Then the great chief, who all your factions quelled, 
Convened his people and a council held, 
J, too, teas there — an uninvited one ; 
And since the days of glorious Washington, 
Down to the modern councils of the man 
Who loved to kill the friendless lnd 
Unasked, unseen, I 've had a station there, 
And observation bids me this declare : 
Since that your wiser fathers left the stage 
Forgotten are their admonitions sage ; 
Wrangling and discord frequent now I hear, 
And these contentions strengthen every year. 
A few, unawed by party's growing sway, 
Cry error, loud, and point the better way. 
Among those few, delighted, I have heard 
The great Defender speak that wiser word. 
But mortals seldom hearken to reproof; 
Headstrong with self they push advice aloof. 

"Before one hundred annual suns shall burn, 
And earth around the wondrous blaze shall turn, 
Time shall to you a mighty change revolve — 
The fabric of y cur Union shall dissolve ! 



18 POEMS. 

The ancient oak lifts high its vernal head, 
And wide its green and leafy limbs are spread ; 
But the chill frosts of autumn come at last, 
And give its withered beauty to the blast ! 
So shall dissentions and divisions come— 
E'en now I hear the stirring fife and drum. 
Brother shall lift his hand against his brother, 
And hostile states shall war with one another. 
A' cw- Ens-land shall withdraw from out the fight, 
And rear herself against opposing might ; 
And when these promis'd threat'nings shall be done 
She shall elect a ruler of her own. 

"Brother, farewell ! Remember what I J ve said 
When Time's hoar frosts have silvered thy young 

head. 
My words are true as that you do not dream"— 
He said, and vanished o'er the quiet stream! 
I started, waking in amazed affright ; 
While in my ear the solemn bird of night 
Uttered a scream, so startling and so shrill, 
The sound itself seemed ominous of ill. 
Slow homeward then my stiffened feet were bent, 
And pondering o'er the vision as I went, 
I thought if Time to pass the dream should bring, 
Who 'd better rule than he to whom I sing ? 



POEMS. 17 



VISION OF POESY.* 

The setting sun had closed the day, 
The silent moon was on her way, 
And men upon their couches lay 

In slumber deep ; 
And I, too, felt the sovereign sway 

Of balmy sleep. 

But then my mind was not reposed ; 
For tho' my eyes no doubt were closed, 
And I to all appearance dozed, 

Yet I could see ; 
And visionary forms deposed 

Strange things to me. 

Methought that sudden flashed a light 
Around my bed, exceeding bright ; 
While I, confounded at the sight, 

Was sore afraid ; 
And 'neath the bed-clothes in affright 

Did hide my head. 

Half-smothered, breathing hard in fear, 
Lest something worse should soon appear, 
I waited awful sounds to hear, 

Like dying groans, 
Or see some shocking spectre rear 

Its chalky bones ! 

When gentle sounds so "soft and low," 
And musically gliding slow, 
Seemed from a magic source to flow, 

My fears to quell ; 

*This Vision is the substance of a remarkable dream which 
the author dreamed in harvest -time. 



18 POEMS. 

Whereat, well-pleased, quoth I, "I '11 know 
Who plays so well." 

Unveiling then my wondering eyes, 
I saw, with heart-struck, deep surprise, 
A tenant of the upper skies, 

Or seemed to be — 
Standing arrayed in heavenly guise, 

And near to me ! 

The phantom seemed a female fair. 
With flowing locks of auburn hair, 
Her snowy arm and bosom bare, 

Of finest mould ; 
And then her robes she knew to wear 

In graceful fold. 

Her eyes gleamed with poetic fire ; 
And in her hand she held a lyre, 
The chords thereof were golden wire- 
Well worth the Muse ; 
Such as methinks the heavenly choir 
Might not abuse ! 

She raised her lyre and brushed its string, 
Softly as with a downy wing ; 
I heard the chords in answer ring 

A pleasant tone ; 
To memory it seemed to sing' 

Days long by-gone ! 

Pensive she gazed upon my face, 
And seemed therein my thoughts to trace ; 
Then with a lightsome, gliding pace 

Approached my bed, 
And with a winning modest grace 

She bowed, and said : 



POEMS. 19 

"My son, I pray distrust not me — 
My cognomen is Poesy ; 
I come with tidings unto thee — 

Sprung from the Nine; 
I come to tell thee thou shalt be 

A child of mine! 

"To Scotia's ancient bard I came, 
To crown his rustic brows with fame, 
And hand posterity his name 

Recorded bright ; 
Mayhap some future bard the same 

Of thee may write. 

"To sing I taught his faltering tongue ; 
Fired with new zeal his harp he strung, 
And to old Scotia, listening, suno- 

His ditties wild ; 
While he to robes of Nature clung, 

Like a true child. 

"I know thou lovest Nature well ! 

The same full oft I 've heard thee tell 

Delighted on her works to dwell, 

With her to stray 
Down purling brook, or lonely dell, 
In musing way. 

"When Spring with all her blushing flowers • 
Invited thee beneath her bowers, 
I saw thee with her sunny hours 

Adorn her name ; 
Or if the earth were wet with showers — 

'T were all the same, 

"When Summer, with her carpet green, 
In all her beauteous prime was seen, 



20 POEMS. 

— F ~ 

I saw thy sober air and mien, 

And thoughtful look ; 
From her thou didst instruction glean, 

As from a book. 

"When waning Autumn lingered near, 
I saw thee mark the rolling year, 
Its withered foliage scattering sere, 

x »Vith great delight ; 
Her solemn, magic winds to hear, 

Enraptured quite. 

"When bitter Winter came at last, 
Loud-roaring with his stormy blast, 
Bestowing, as it rattled past, 

The frozen shower, 
I 've seen thee shivering stand aghast. 

And own his power ! 

"When Fortune with her fickle hand 
Led thee to tread a foreign strand, 
I saw thee listen her command, 

And willing go; 
But yet to leave thy father-land 

Blade tears to flow. 

"And when beneath a softer clime, 
Where mankind sport with careful Time, 
In revel live and mock at crime — 

With tuneful lays 
I 've heard thee sing, in artless rhyme, 

New-England's praise ! 

"'These things I Ve seen and heard in thee,j 
Well-pleasing in themselves to me ; 
Henceforward and forever be 

My dear-loved son! 



POEMS. 21 

And for a genius thou art free 

Myself to own. 

"And take thou this, my sounding lyre, 
And let it rouse thy soul to fire, 
And wake a strain that ne'er shall tire, 

Tho' sad the heart ! 
Nor let thy thankful self aspire 

To higher part. 

"Sing of thy ancient, noble state — 
Her learned sons — renowned great — 
Her patriotic dead, whose fate 

Your freedom gave — 
Her patriotic fire innate, 

That burns to save \ 

"Sing of New -England, favored land ! 
Her customs dear — her social band — 
Her everlasting hills that stand 

Above her meads, 
As when at first, by His command, 

They reared their heads. 

"Her silver streams meandering slow, 
As onward to the sea they flow — 
Her vine-clad homes out-looking low 

'Neath sheltering trees, 
And seldom failing to bestow 

Contented ease. 

"Tell of her sons that rove the earth 
Far from the country of their birth — ■ 
Tell of the bright domestic hearth, 

Her daughters fair, 
And of the gay and festive mirth 

That centers there. 
2 



22 POEMS. 

"Now to my words incline thine ear : 
In every place thyself revere, 
Nor the harsh voice of censure fear 

For thy poor lays ; 
Nor beg thy fellow-man to hear 

To court his praise." 

Thus spoke the beauteous, heavenly maid. 
I listened well — no more afraid, 
And all distrustful feelings laid 

Forgetful by ; 
And took the lyre, e'en as she bade, 

Its tone to try. 

She gave it me, still vibrating. 
Its sound incited me to sing, 
And busy thoughts began to spring 

Profusely thick, 
While skilfully I touched each string 

At random quick. 

"My tongue broke forth in unknown strain* 
To make the veriest minstrel vain; 
The numbers in harmonic train 

Adorned my song, 
And sweet the whispering strings did fain 

Rehearse them long. 

I ceased my song with hands upraised, 
At my untutored skill amazed ; 
And anxious waited to be praised — 

Could she be there? 
I looked, but lo ! I sorrowing gazed 

On empty air I 

Now Phoebus from his ocean-bed 
Lifted above the hills his head ; 



POEMS. 23 

Before his face the shadows fled, 

And morning broke ; 

And with the night my vision sped, 
And I awoke. 



FIRE-SIDE MUSINGS 

During a cold rain-storm in November. 

November with his bleak and misty skies 
Clothes all the landscape in a gloomy frown ; 
A heavy cloud upon the hill-top lies, 
And the cold raindrops weigh the herbage down, 
Its vernal greenness withered into brown ; 
The forest oaks — how gaunt and bare they be I 
With not a leaf their naked heads to crown; 
The pheasants all to sheltering coverts flee, 
And snug the squirrel lies within his hollow tree. 

And shall I sympathise in Nature's grief, 
And sadly weep because she seems to mourn? 
Shall 1 lament for Summer's beauty brief, 
And joyous Autumn, ravaged now and torn 
Of all the splendors which her prime adorn ? 
I ask the man who guides the rustic plough, 
Is it not grief that can be better borne? 
Or haih he never contemplated how 
To wipe the gloomy frown from nature's hazy brow? 

Come, let us look within the cottage door 
Of him whom mad Ambition cannot lure, 
Whose harvest fruits are laid in winter's store, 
Himself and flocks from driving blasts secure; 
Ungrateful he if overmuch demure 
When bars his door the cold autumnal rain ; 



24 POEMS. 

Let him reflect it will not aye endure ; 
Not always drenched the now o'erflowing plain,. 
For when the storm is past the sun will shine again. 

Is not the independent cottager 
Of all mankind the most supremely blest ? 
No charms for him the brilliant gossamer 
That floats about a monarch's haughty crest. 
True nobleness that swells his manly breast 
Bids him despise the pageantry of art ; 
Full well he knows 't is hollow at the best ; 
And the gay bustle of the noisy mart 
Grates harshly on his ear and sickens on his heart. 

In vain the sons of heraldic parade 
May boast of lordly pomp and honors high ; 
In vain the king may rule to be obeyed, 
And, girt with power, his self-willed sceptre ply; 
The child of Nature gives them all the lie ! 
To his well-reasoning and discerning mind 
It seems a wondrous inconsistency 
That some, alike-created weak and blind, 
Should think to lord it o'er the rest of human kind. 

Ts not his choice far wiser of the twain 
Who can at worldly honors coldly mock ? 
Who leaves the crowned head o'er men to reign 
While he contented rules his little flock ? 
Who sees unmoved the firmest empires rock, 
By wars up-heaved, by sore convulsions rent, 
While he securely bides the mighty shock, 
And sees aloof its blasting fury spent ; 
While for himself unharmed his prayer to Heaven 
is sent ? 

No world for him beyond his little farm, 
No hankering for baubles not his own ; 



POEMS. 25 

On every side he finds some rural charm, 
And loves fair Nature for her God alone, 
For in her face His handy-work is shown ; 
And from His bounteous hand he owns the boon 
Of all the blessings thick around him strown ; 
For him doth Phoebus glorify the noon, 
And pleasantly at night shall shine the Harvest 
moon. 

Such choice be mine — a chosen spot of land 
Here in the bosom of my native vale ; 
A nervous arm and labor's horny hand, 
Athletic frame and constitution hale, 
To hold the plough or ply the sounding flail ; 
A thrifty wife as loving as beloved, 
Whose simple manners art cannot assail ; 
A happy heart, through every trial proved, 
Whose trust is placed above unfaltering and un- 
moved. 

Then put into my hands the rural lyre, 
And let me wake the wildly-sounding lay ; 
Then while the tempest drives me to the fire 
I ^\\ lose no time in learning how to play. 
And often, also, in the pleasant day, 
When birds sing sweetly in the early morn, 
They shall inspire me with the carrol g*y ; 
Summer shall show the sweetly-scented thorn, 
And Autumn sing to Ceres o'er her bending corn. 

New- England, fain I 'd be a bard of thine ! 
Thou art my country — be my patron, too ! 
Help me to note thy virtues as they shine, 
And to the world thy light refulgent show, 
Above the darkness that would veil below. 
To thee, my much-loved mother. I appeal : 
2* 



<£0 POEMS. 

Give me thy smile — thou hast it to bestow ! 

Than me, I ween, few of thy children feel 

More sorrow for thy wo, or pleasure for thy weal. 

Nor deem me boastful — for I scorn to see 
The lips mis-call the language of the heart; 
To me it savors of hypocrisy, 
From which, as from a serpent's venorned dart. 
The feeling soul should with abhorrence start. 
Am I unreasonable in my demands? 
Judge ye who have the kindness to impart. 
True as Time metes his ever-gliding sands. 
So true I ask no favors at unwilling hands. 

Such is the wish — what think ye of the same 
Who boast high titles and a pompous state ? 
Will not death rob you of your lordiy name, [great 
And bid the worm whose wealth has styled him 
With meanest beggar share an equal fate ? 
Reflect a moment, ye vain sons of pride I 
Reflection must your self-conceit abate — 
Who but yourselves would have you to preside? 
Not surely He whose rule is over all and wide ? 

What of the choice ? ye seekers after wealth, 
Who lay up treasures which shall not endure ; 
Who sell the soul and its eternal health 
For Mammon's baubles and his glittering lure, 
Oh, sweet Contentment shall prescribe a cure ! 
She bids you count the things of earth less dear, 
Proclaims them all fast-failing and unsure ; 
She cries you rest your fancied troubles here, 
And as ye now serve Mammon do your God revere. 

What of the choice? ye dwellers in the town, 
Where night and day its legions clamor loud ; 



POEMS. 27 

Ye, who confined in walls of brick and stone, 
Do mingle madly in the jostling crowd ; 
And who of gay appareling are proud. 
What of the choice ? ye no doubt deem it mean. 
Have ever "thrust the sickle in," or ploughed ? 
If not, ye may not judge — but I have seen 
Both life in town and country, and here judge be- 
tween. 

What of the choice ? Methinks I hear a voice, 
Or rather mingled voices, in reply : 
First Health congratulates me on the choice, 
And calm Contentment doth it ratify ; 
And Independence turns on me his eye ; 
The Muse declares the choice both wise and sane 
And Competence looks smilingly hard by. 
Well, then, so far from feeling to complain, 
Were 1 to try anew, 1 'd choose the same again. 



EPISTLE TO A BROTHER IN VIRGINIA. 

Oct. 26, 1837. 
Brother, I 've taken pen in hand, 
Your thoughts a moment to command ; 
Tho' Alleghanies 'twixt us stand, 

Yet in the heart, 
Despite wide-intervening land, 

We 're not apart. 

Here in the valley of the stream 
Which first inspired ideal dream, 
Which kindled the poetic gleam 

Around my ways, 
Which taught my youthful muse to teem 

Imperfect lays — 



28 POEMS. 

Whose rural beauties charm rny eye 
More than a city's blazonry, 
And which I pray until I die 

May charm me still — 
At present in retreat I lie, 

And bide your will. 

I love my dear, my native soil ; 
I love her hardy sons of toil ; 
From civil strife and foreign broil 

May Heaven keep her f 
May no accursed party coil 

In fury sweep her I 

To me this life is not more dear 
Than her eternal hills that rear 
Their heads, and from afar appear 

In grandeur high— 
Than her deep lore that fills my ear— 

Her light, my eye ! 

But yet, with all the light we boast, 
Brother, believe me, there 's a host 
That darken yet New-England's coast, 

Mad-groping, blind; 
They are not fools , and yet almost 

For fools designed, 

I '11 prove the truth of my remark, 
How some here wander in the dark 
Without a glimmer or a spark 

Of Reason's light ; 
And know but just like dogs to bark 

At what they spite : 

You know the wisdom of the age, 
How certain meddlers would engage 



POEMS. 29 

Iu wars that wise ones will not wage, 

And wild schemes plot, 

And vent their blind and zealous rage 

Where they should not. 

I know it, too, and took a verse 
From Scripture Proverbs for discourse,* 
And one that touches on the curse 

Of which I write ; 
And wrote, "for better or for worse/' 

In black and white. 

My sentiments I boldly told, 
(TW in a modest manner bold,) 
And in my weakness did unfold 

What in my view 
Are evils worthy of a scold, 

The country through. 

Heedless of either friends or foes — 
Unasked by these, unawed by those, 
I gave the public what I chose — 

The message sped ; 
And as you rightly may suppose 

The thing was read. 

These were my thoughts when it was done : 
Now should the coat fit any one 
1 'm willing he should put it on 

If so he will ; 
And, surely 't is the sick alone 

That need the pill. 

And so it proved ; the sick I found 
Rose in delirium around, 

*Vide the article alluded to — Proverbs xx,3. The sermon 
and the effectit produced are hinted at in the "Addenda" to the 
Review, in this volume. 



80 POEMS. 

And many, too, within the bound 

Of an hour's walk ; 

Their ravings in ray ear did sound 

Like crazy talk. 

One, hobbling on a Bible crutch, 
Said I had grieved his feelings much ; 
The consequent effect was such 

On his weak parts, 
He knew that I had aimed to touch 

Him with my darts. 

Perhaps, now, you would like to know 
What set the cripple thinking so ; 
I fain would keep it back — but no ! 

Truth is the word ; 
And yet I blush to see it go, 

5 Tis so absurd ! — 

On ranting sects a w T ord I dealt, 
And spoke exactly as I felt, 
That "some in strange devotion knelt." — 

Hide, god of day ! 
*T was this made Cripple's reason melt — 

He kneels to pray I 

Well, others called me infidel, 
Because I dared the truth to tell : 
And while they fain would ring the knell 

For Opposition, 
'Tis Ignorance I would impel 

To abolition. 

Tho' I 've not told the half I might, 
If it do n't argue want of light, 
Then I 'ra not surely in the right; 
And if I err, 



POEMS. 31 

May I wing Wisdom in her flight — 

The dear stranger ! 
****** 
There is a link binds soul to soul, 
Tho' sundered far as pole from pole ; 
Not word of kings, not proud controul 

That link can sever ; 
As long 's the "silver cord" be whole, 
'T is firm as ever. 

That, chain around ourselves is thrown ; 
On me its influence I own, 
And often, silent and alone, 

I feel it bind, 
And all our joys, in days by-gone, 

Come fresh to mind. 

Ah, yes ! those days have flown away 
Since hand in hand we used to stray 
Alon<r the walks of infancy ; 

And later yet, 
How we have spent the youthful day 

Can you forget ? 

How from our dear home self-exiled 
On life's broad highway we have toiled, 
And one another's cares beguiled 

With ready cheer ? 
If one would weep, the other smiled 

To quell the tear. 

But manhood opens to your way ; 
Another, innocently gay, 
Will now the fancied ills allay 

Of careful life ; 
May Heaven's watchful eye, I pray, 

Attend your wife. 



32 POEMS. 

Now as the voyage of life you start 
May wise discretion be your chart, 
And for a compass your own heart 

Has giv'n it you ; 
And like the needle may your part 
Be ever true ! 

May Death full long forget the knife 
To part you from your tender wife ; 
And may you sail secure from strife 

Down sunny stream, 
And with the fairest breeze of life 

Abaft the beam. 

And when you launch upon that sea 
That rolls in deep eternity, 
Oh, blissful may your landing be 

On pleasant shore I 
And then may Heaven welcome thee, 

And evermore 1 



A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 

Forth from his father's hall a wanderer went, 
His steps towards the setting sun were bent ; 
With heavy heart in smiling looks disguised; 
By mother counselled and by sire advised. 
A youth he was, and scarcely ever o'er 
The threshold of nativity before ; 
And when each day with retrospective eye 
He saw wide distance intervening lie 
Between himself and all that he had left, 
He felt like one of all but life bereft. 
But Hope had lent him one consoling ray, 



POEMS. 33 

To cheer his heart while on his lonely way : 

Beyond the lakes where then were frontier lands, 

An ancient city of the waters stands*; 

An elder brother waited for him there, 

And watched his progress with the eye of care. 

The weary leagues of journey o'er at last, 

The voyage done and Erie's billows past, 

He heard with joy his brother's welcome voice, 

Who took his hand, and bade his heart rejoice. 

It did rejoice — no more for home he sighed, 

Contented with his brother to abide. 

In him the lad a generous helper found, 

Whose love was pure, whose good advice was sound. 

Then in the "paths of peace" they walked awhile 

And Fortune, favoring, seemed on them to smile. 

How oft we see the Summer sun go down 
Amid the gloomy clouds that sullen frown ! 
So set the sun upon the wanderer's day, 
Night hid his light and darkness hid his way ! 
Throughout the land was heard a frenzied cry — 
'T was that of men in mortal agony ; 
A darkling pestilence sped in the wind, 
And Death with all his terrors came behind. 
Who that survived those days of awful gloom 
Forgets the general flocking to the tomb? 
The rich, the poor, the high, the low, the great, 
Learned and unlearned, shared an equal fate. 
The shafts of death fell thick on every side ; 
They reached the twain — the elder brother died ! 
Palsied he fell, and with expiring breath 
Bade life adieu, and calmly welcomed death. 
The wanderer watched beside his dying bed, 
Until at last the parting spirit fled ; 

•Detroit, (Mich.) 



34 POEMS. 

n . mamgm 

Then to his narrow home he saw him borne, 
And followed fast behind the hearse to mourn. 
A funeral train, too, thronged around his bier 
To shed for him the sympathising tear. 
The man of God, with solemn, serious air, 
To Heaven's high Throne preferred the earnest 

prayer ; 
While those around, each with uncovered head, 
Bethought them of the virtues of the dead. 
He prayed for him who mourned a brother's end, 
That God to him would consolation send — 
That he might find a friend in yet another, 
In One "who sticketh closer than a brother !** 
Then laid the dead within the "lap of earth," 
Till the archangel's trump shall call him forth. 

How felt the wanderer when the scene was o'er? 
He dried his eyes and strove to weep no more. 
Far from the busy haunts of man he strayed, 
And tuned his lyreon which he sometimes play'd. 
As eve's grey shadows with the landscape blent, 
He woke its strain, and thus his sad lament : 

THE LAMENT. 

The weary sun has gone to rest 

Upon his watery ocean-bed ; 
Night comes in sable drapery, 

And wide o'er earth her shades are spread 
The cheerful day of light is past, 

But not from mourning earth alone — 
Alas, upon my saddened heart 

The light of life and joy is gone ! 

He whom the gods did love is dead I 
The muses loved his very name ! 



POEMS. 35 

Oh, why has Death's untimely shade 
Eclipsed the day-star of his fame ? 

Oh, why is Science called to mourn 
The loss of one in manhood's bloom 1 

On him the glare of knowledge shone 
To light his pathway to the tomb ! 

Yea, thou art gone, friend of my youth, 

Eldest of our fraternal band ! 
How stern the stroke which left me her© 

'Mongst strangers in a stranger land I 
But Oh ! my heart is sick to think 

How heavy will the tidings come 
To those who all unconscious doat 

Upon him, at his distant home ! 

His feet, returned, no more shall tread 

The threshold of that vine-clad door I 
Around their social evening hearth 

They '11 see his manly form no mo re 
No more they '11 listen to his tales 

Of peril on the stormy deep,* 
For lo ! he waketh not again 

From this his all-forgetting sleep ! 

Yon star that twinkles in the sky — 

Thou 'rt witness to my pain of heart ! 
Thou hear'st my heart-felt, deep-drawn sigh — 

Thou see'st the trickling tear-drop start 1 
Perhaps thou art the blest abode 

Of him for whom lament I sing ; 
Perhaps, well-pleased, he hovers near 

To take the offering which I bring. 

♦The deceased was an officer in the United States navy for 
a number of years. 



36 POEMS. 

Brother, while stars are in the sky — 

While suns shall light this earth below- 
So long as verdure decks the earth, 

And mountains stand, and rivers flow- 
While Eritfs boisterous billows roll, 

And this poor life remains to me, 
Brother, within my grateful soul 

Shall still abide thy memory I 



THE WISCONSIN MOON. 

'T was in a wild and far-off land, 
Where Nature's savage realms expand. 
Arrayed by her primeval hand 

In ancient dress, 
Decking in robes sublimely grand 

The wilderness ; 

Beyond the bouuds of our frontier, 
Where Indian tribes pursue the deer, 
And light the council-fire in fear 

Of whiteman's face, 
Who prowls for them and plunder near— 
Black-hearted ? base ! 

It was a chill December night ; 
The ice had shut the streamlets tight, 
And o'er the earth a mantle white 

Of snow was spread ; 
And Nature seemed all lifeless quite — 

So drear and dead ! 

By fickle, adverse fortune led, 
Half-clad, half-frozen, illly fed, 



POEMS. 37 

I sought my cold and cheerless bed, 
But not to rest; 

For gentle sleep my eyelids tied — 

A stranger guest. 

Beneath an open roof I lay ; 
And thro' the chinky wall of clay 
I heard old Boreas whistling play 

The whole night long, 
Without the power to bid him stay 

His mournful song. 

I turned my restless, wakeful eye 
And saw the full moon sailing high, 
Slow thro' the midnight frosty sky, 

When in my mind 
Sad thoughts arose, and pensively 

I thus repined: 

Thou cheerful orb of silver light 
That shines upon this cheerless night, 

What space reflects thy blaze ! 
What dif'rent forms of mankind, too, 
Inhabit planet earth below 

Thy penetrating rays ! 
Thou shinest on the rich and poor; 

And on my distant home ; 
Thy light is on the cottage door, 

And on the gilded dome. 

Yea, wealthy ones beneath thee roll 
In every comfort which the soul 

Can ask to gather here ; 
Of their abundance well might spare 
A portion for the poor to share, 

Their meagre lot to cheer. 



38 POEMS. 

But ah, the selfish creature man ! 

Tho' filled with plenty now, 
He strives and labors while he can 

To make it overflow. 

Thou seeest the lowly cottage roof 
Where avarice may find reproof; 

Its inmates lack for show ; 
And yet with sweet contentment blest 
Perhaps this hour they calmly rest 

Without a cause for wo. 
What tho' they never can afford 

The luxuries of wealth — 
Contentment crowns their humble board, 

And heaven gives them health. 

My distant happy home — ah, me! 
On fairer earthly home than thee 

That planet never shone ; 
While I, an outcast from the pale 
Of social ties and friendship hale, 

Must wander here alone ! 
Deprived of comforts once I knew, 

How can I but repine, 
When I reflect that but a few 

Feel wo akin to mine ! 

I paused to muse upon my grief, 
Scarce hoping to obtain relief, 
But deemed myself the very chief 

Of all forlorn ; 
While Time, the busy, silent thief, 

Crept towards morn. 

The waning moon went coursing on' 
To leave me soon in dark alone ; 



POEMS. 39 

When Boreas in a plaintive tone 

Spoke thro' the wall ; 
I listened in the solemn moan 

An answering call * v 

"Compare thy case, sad tho' it be, 
To other forms of misery ; 
See the poor beggar shivering lie 
As stretched beside the way to die. 
He has not e'en thy humble bed 
Whereon to rest his aching head ; 
Spurned from inhospitable door, 
Lean, hungered famine gnaws him sore ! 

"List the lone seaman's drowning cry 
Beneath the frowning wintry sky ; 
See the wild waves above him roll, 
Freezing to ice his very soul ! 
Think how with joy his feet would tread 
The flooring of thy humble shed. 

"Think of the prisoner's wretched doom, 
Pining within a dungeon's gloom ; 
What groans bespeak his inward pains ! 
How doleful sound his clanking chains ! 
Perhaps he counts the winged flight 
Of hours that measure out the night, 
And knows that death awaits his prey, 
Whene'er the sun shall bring the day. 

"Think of the bondman's hopeless wo ! 
Can you his life of sorrows know? 
Canst feel his galling fetters weigh 
Upon thy limbs so heavily ? 
Art thou compelled to breathe his sigh 
In vain for blessed liberty ? 



40 POEMS. 

"Hearest thou the maniac shrieking wild, 
From reason, hope, and home exiled ; 
Who to the chilling nightly air 
Mutters the incoherent prayer 1 

"l)ost mind the countless pallid train 
This night are racked on beds of pain? 
Where sickness trims the feeble light 
That glimmers thro' the weary night ? 
Compare their hapless lot with thine, 
And no more in dejection pine." 

I heard, and felt reproof— resolved 

All sad complaint to rest; 
My heart in thankfulness dissolved 

That I so much was blest. 

And then the same instructive strain 

Sung me a lullaby ; 
And when from sleep awaked again, 

The sun was in the sky. 



LIFE— ITS DISCONTENTS. 

I. 

Say what is life ? repining man. 

A lengthened day of toil — "a span," 

A season fraught with wo; 
A troubled dream which death awakes, 
A highway choked with thorny brakes, 

Where mortals groping go 1 
A drama, too, of many scenes; 

Each player has his own, 
But scarce his acting he begins — 

He *s off the stage and gone ! 



POEMS. 41 



Then others, his brothers, 
Protract the tragic play ; 

The curtain must certain 
Eclipse their transient day. 

II. 

Is Discontent the common lot ? 
How favored those who know her not ! 

Alas, how few they are ! 
Some give to sorrow no restraint, 
And seem determined on complaint, 

Tho' Fortune treat them fair. 
Take one from out the favored part 

To whom content is given ; 
He takes the boon with thankful heart, 
And owns the gift from Heaven. 
He fears not, he hears not 

The discontented voice ; 
But strives well, and thrives well 
Upon his better choice. 

111. 

Behold the soul in youthful mask ! 

Tho' blest with all that heart should ask, 

It deems itself not so ; 
But forward looks with eager eye, 
And counts the moments as they fly, 

As dragging dull and slow. 
As manhood comes at his desire 

He looks on childhood past, 
And while his cares begin to tire 
Suspects himself too fast. 

While moaning, and groaning 

At retrospective view, 
Still prying and trying 

To seek out something new. 



42 POEMS. 

IV. 

Mark next old age — life's setting sun. 
His wasting sands are nearly run, 

But as he totters on, 
Still loath is he to quit the earth, 
Tho' grieving in it from his birth — 

Complaining, weak and wan ! 
How inconsistent is the life 

Which Discontentment leads ! 
Tho' sorely vexed at worldly strife 
Life's wasting lamp she feeds- 
While living, she 5 s giving 

Her hours to care and pain 3 
But dying, she 's trying 
To win them back again 1 

V. 

As roves the sun from east to west, 
So have I roved without a rest, 

Save solace for the soul : 
And toss'd on Fortune's surging wave, 
I 've seemed to eye my yawning grave 

Within the billowy roll. 
But calmly then I viewed the surge 

Portentous, swelling dark, 
And heeded not the gloomy dirge 
That howled around my bark ! 
Not fearing;, while steering 

Thro' darkness as of night; 
While groping, still hoping 
That all would end aright. 

VI. 

Should fell despair have seized my mind 
No wished-for haven could I find — 
In wildering terrors lost ; 



POEMS. 40 

Confounded 'midst the thickening gloom, 
Black as the murky midnight tomb, 

By whirling tempests tost! 
But Hope, twin sister of Content, 

Gave me her timely aid — 
Aloof assailing horrors sent, 
And the mad storm allayed. 

Then light'ning and bright'ning 

Appeared the cheerful day, 
And error and terror 
Before it fled away. 

VII. 

The sick may mourn for loss of health; 
The man who rolls in splendid wealth 

May yet in sorrow pine ; 
But, Heaven, hear thou my earnest prayer — 
Whatever be my lot to share 
Let sweet content be mine ! 
Give me an eye without a tear 

For ill-timed, carking wo, 
However rough my journey here 
In this dark vale below ! 

My heart, then, shall part, then, 

With ev'ry wrong forgiven, 
While I here shall die here 
To live again in Heaven. 



44 POEMS. 

A VISION. 

Letter to Dr. Jno. Frissell, Wheeling, Va> 

I had a vision yesternight — 

A vision shown to few ; 
The substance of it I will write 

And show to you, 
And, ten to one, you '11 find the sight 

Was mighty true, 

Methought that near a great highway 

By chances I was thrown, 
Where I could see the mixed array 

That travelled on ; 
And life seemed like a busy day 

That soon was gone. 

There from the "loop-hole of retreat" 

Unseen I gazed abroad ; 
Nor could I count the dusty feet 

Upon that road ; 
But most I wondered that so fleet 

The pace they trod. 

While on the scene I musing gazed, 

And strove to know its aim, 
Sudden a light around me blazed — 

A phantom came. 
Struck at the sight I stood amazed — 
Wisdom her name. 

She spoke, and I no more afraid, 

So gentle was her voice, 
Aside all apprehension laid 

And heard from choice ; 
And Oh! her kind instruction made 
My heart rejoice. 



POEMS. 

"Behold we here," she thus began, 
The varied character of man. 
Here do we find the dross and worth 
That shine or glimmer in the earth. 
Of such as these, (be truth disclosed,) 
Is this dear world of yours composed. 
I '11 note them as they pass along — 
'T is yours to judge 'twixt right and wrong : 

"There comes a fool, upon whose sight 
Blest Reason never ope'd her light ; 
Whose vacant mind and brutish will, 
Howe'er advised, are brutish still. 
'T is from a blank we judge a prize ; 
So from a fool we know the wise. — 
Were not to man the contrast given, 
He 'd live for hell nor care for heaven. 

"Yon trifling thing that struts and flits ! 
Whether he walks, or stands, or sits, 
Surveys himself with pleasant eye ; 
So doth the gaudy butterfly. 
Young man, forego thy deep disgust ! 
You envy not his gloss, I trust. 
What tho' he flutter for a day — 
The first chill breeze frights him away." 
Thou 'rt right, quoth I, and in my mind 
A sage comparison I find 
Between the fop and idiot — 
Which is the fool and which is not 1 

The goddess smiled, and would reply 
To my remark, but presently 
Another object came so near 
I could discern his roguish leer. 
Whereon my fair instructress said : 



46 POEMS. 

"His calling is no honest trade. 
There's mischief brewing in his eye; 
His step is soft, his hands are sly ; 
His conscience is as easy, too, 
As infant foot in giant shoe. 
To know the rogue no second glance 
Is wanting at his countenance. 
Not thus with all of Adam's race 
You ; 11 find their index on the face ; 
Were Justice never wronged you'd see 
Full often ? neath the gallows-tree 
The man whose fate were ne'er delayed 
Had half his crimes his looks betrayed. 

''Behold this man that totters by, 
With stumbling foot and maudlin eye. 
He is a drunkard — let him go, 
Altho' by nature worthy, too. 
Perhaps misfortune bade his soul 
Drown care and sorrow in the bowl ; 
Reasons more potent e'en might urge, 
Till brought to Ruin's dizzy verge. 

"Mark yonder sanctimonious wight, 
'Dissembling smooth' — the hypocrite ! 
He is the vilest of the vile, 
Skilled in dark arts and subtle w r ile ! 
Mark how with cordial smiles he greets 
His luckless neighbor whom he meets, 
While hatred in his bosom lies, 
And evil envy fills his eyes. 
You '11 mind him in the 'house of prayer'; 
Among the first he 's ever there, 
And few with him in zeal compare. 
Unseen of men, and worship o'er, 
The hypocrite 's a saint no more!" 



POEMS. 47 

I ? ve often heard before, quoth I, 
Of this thing called hypocrisy. 
Wilt thou to me some power impart 
By which to judge the hollow heart ? 
"There is a rule I freely give ; 
'Tis simply this : learn as you live. 
Mind past events with frequent eye, 
And let experience profit thee. 

"This is the scowling infidel, 

With distant air and aspect ill. 
Beware of him and trust him not — 
No crime too dark for him to plot ; 
No kind forgiveness for his foes ; 
No s\ mpathy for others' wees ; 
No pity for the bleeding heart ; 
In mercy's gifts he shares no part. 
His actions Wisdom grieves to scan — 
He is a dark and stranger man ! 

"Here comes an object worth remark, 
With reckless air and visage dark. 
His brow to hideous scowl is bent 
As if on hellish plot intent. 
Mark well that man — fiend tho' he be, 
Not always thus as now you see. 
Once his now dull and deafened ear 
Delighted Zioii s songs to hear ; 
Once those foul lips, to scoffing given, 
Were whispering pious prayers to heaven. 
Go search the page of Holy Writ, 
There you will find his symbol fit." 

Next in succession came along 
A serious man, apart the throng, 
With lofty air and thoughtful pace, 



48 POEMS. 

And marked throughout with native grace. 
The fire of genius lit his eye ; 
Upturned it fastened on the sky, 
And seemed to read in floods of light 
The choicest page of Fancy bright. 
Both scanned this man with anxious eye, 
But neither spoke — I know not why. 

Then last of all the wise man came— 
Some know him by a christian name. 
His mind was conscious aye of right ; 
No threats could awe, no fears affright. 
A smile was o'er his features spread, 
And "sunshine settled on his bead." 
With lightsome step he passed along, 
And Wisdom heard his happy song. 
"It is my own dear son!" she cries, 
While tears of fondness filled her eyes. 
He, too, the recognition owned, 
And in a joyful greeting joined. 

Affected at the touching scene, 

The tears of jealousy 
Went coursing down my cheeks, I ween, 

Most copiously ; 
Nor did I try my grief to screen 

Too zealously. 

I turned to ask the goddess fair 

My humble self to own ; 
But judge, dear sir, of my despair 

To find her gone ! 
And as the vision endeth there, 

So I have done ! 



POEMS. 49 

THE RETURN. 

Tibi cano, mea mater. 

Land of the forest and the rock, 
Of dark blue Jake and mighty river, 
Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
The storm's career, the lightning's shock — 
My own green land forever!— Whittier. 

1. 

Connecticut, I stand upon thy shore, 

And see with joy thy sparkling waters glide; 
The morning breeze plays soft thy bosom o'er, 

And lends new lustre to thy silver tide, 
And nods the elm upon thy greenwood side. 

Fondly my eyes behold thee yet again, 
And thy rich vale, here intervening wide ; 

There lofty hills define the narrow plain — 
The whole like carpet deck'd with variegated grain. 

II, 

I 've stood upon thy shore, famed Ohio, 

And traced thy mazy channel to its end.; 
I've seen Missouri 1 s turbid current flow, 

And with Missepa's* mighty torrent blend, 
In one grand volume to the sea descend ; 

I 've f >und midst Nature's savage solitude 
The purling stream whose welling waters wend 

Thro' prairies fair, by Flora gaily strewed-, 
And fainting knelt to drink, and felt my strength 
renewed. 

III. 

But none of these, Connecticut, can vie 
With thy rich scenery of shore and isle ; 

None save thy beauties captivate my eye — 
On none has Nature looked so sweet a smile, 

♦Miss epa — the trua Indian word, corrupted into Mississippi. 

4* 



50 POEMS. 

Pure of itself, that savors nothing vile ! 

On thee my wandering thoughts I oft bestow, 
In distant lands, with Mem'ry's magic wile 5 
I Ve seen as oft thy healthful waters flow 
O'er pebbles white and cold that shine like gems 
below. 

IV. 

That well-known islet, still as ever fair ! 

Buried beneath her big elms' sombre shade ; 
But soft ! enchantment's magic hand is there — 

Not fairy's web, nor yet of watery Naiad ; 
By outlaw dark that subtle spell is laid. 

The story is by every gossip told, 
How Kidd, the pirate, there deposite made 

Of his ill-gotten wealth, and buried gold 
In heavy yellow bars and "dollars many fold." 

V. 

And the lone voyager, as he passes by, 

Rests for the while upon his weary oar, 
And turns his eye on thee distrustfully, 

And the dark winding of thy shadowy shore, 
For oft he 5 s heard thy fearful tale before. 

The guardian genius of thy fabled soil 
On thy behalf I earnestly implore, 

Let not intrusive art thy weald despoil, 
Nor Commerce fill thy ears with all her loud turmoil. 

VI. 

Yon mountain old ! I know your outline well ; 

My infant eyes have oft been raised to thee ; 
Before my feet could walk or tongue could tell 

Thy fixed and lofty frown regarded me. 
1 hail thee now, with every rock and tree ! 

Between it and the world's engrossing crowd 
To this dear vale a barrier thou shalt be, 



POEMS. 51 

To keep aloof the rabble, mixed and loud, 
Eager for glittering pelf, the humble and the proud. 

VII. 

And hither come? the tributary brook, 

Stealing around the intervening hill ; 
Man has revealed thy solitary nook, [mill. 

And drowned thy murmur in the clattering 
Much of thy beauty thou retainest still, 

Tho' sad the work that careless Time has done. 
But I will rest my praise of thee until 

Thou hast a name to hinge thy fame upon — 
So now I christen thee, Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con.* 

VIII. 

Thou art to me like old familiar friend — 

Than otherwise thou never well couldst be ; 
I know thy "farthest spring" and this thy end, 

And so have known since early infancy. 
Dost know me not ?— your murmur welcomes me! 

My father's house o'erlooks thy winding way, 
My happiest hours were in thy company, 

When but a child I sought thy banks to play, 
And came with dripping frock and conscious guilt's 
delay. 

IX. 
How well I knew the angler's part to act ! 

Despite the storm that gathered o'er my head 
With hook and line, and fisher's secret tact, 

I walked thy hollow banks with cautious tread, 
With treacherous bait thy finny people fed. 

Then one by one I pulled them from the burn, 
Their wet sides stained with silver spots and red, 

Till closing day admonished my return. — 
Ye fops, a moral good from simple fishes learn ! 

*Tbe Indian mine of a Wisconsin stream, The first syllable 
to be pronounced broad like the first syllable of wa-ter. 



POEMS. 



X. 

This hill invites me to its woody brow ; 

Gladly I '11 mount to it with willing feet, 
How well repaid the little labor now! 

Can penciled art afford so rich a treat 1 
'T is Nature's work, revisioned and complete. 

One hour spent here repays a year of pain ! 
Below me, wrapt in calm seclusion sweet, 

Scenes of my childhood, ye appear again! 
And here I count each link in memory's golden 
chain. 

XI. 

There is a tear that gratitude distils 

When on a long-lost dear we rest our eyes. 
There, in the lap of circumjacent hills, 

My much-loved, modest, native village lies! 
Who boast of wisdom are the lesser wise ; 

Who boast of worth have nothing but the name; 
The liar aye assumes a holy guise, 

So doth the fawning hypocrite the same, 
And oft his hellish arts will put the good to shame. 

XII. 

Sweet village, I accuse not thee of aught 

Of vain pretension to unreal worth; 
Not my good will could ever thus be bought— 

Thou art to me the dearest spot on earth ; 
And, Heaven, I bless the soil that gave me birth! 

Preserve thou it from every harmful guile, 
From mischief-making Envy's cankering dearth 

And on its thankful sons bestow the while 
Gifts which are thine to give— thy sempiternal smile! 

XIII. 

First the tall spire above the "house of prayer, ,, 
Where many a Sabbath's holy hours I've spent 



POEMS. 53 

Free of the world and every worldly care, 

And heard the voice of supplication sent 
To Heaven's high Throne whose "hearing ear" 
was lent. 
And then to list the anthem's solemn roll ! — 
The deep-toned bass with loftier numbers blent, 
Like healing oil upon the wounded soul, 
Lifting its troubled thought above poor earth's 
control. 

XIV. 

Those sacred airs are ever in my ear : 

Old Hundred rolls in ancient majesty ; 
Or Mear's sweet tenor rises soft and clear ; 

Anon ascends slow-measuring Dundee 
In all the pathos of its melody ; 

Who hears Ballerina shall not hear in vain ; 
And midst them all it hath delighted me 

To hear sad China plaintively complain, 
Or noble Patmos chaunt the solemn-soundino- 

o 

strain. 

XV. 

Yonder, upon the verge of rising ground, 

In silence weeps the lonely burial-place. 
There left to rest on death's cold couch profound, 

Lie many tokens of a mortal race ; 
And veiled from me is many a well-known face. 

Among those graves, at Sabbath's setting sun, 
I 've musing strayed, the chisseled line to trace 

Upon the front of friendship's tablet stone, 
Which bade me pause and think how soon life's 
sands may run. 

XVI. 

That lowly house that skirts the village green — 
No more towards it my schoolboy feet are turn'd 



54 POEMS, 

— No more within its brick-built walls are seen 
The noisy class where competition earned 

The dear-prized medal from the tutor learn'd. 
Happy that youth to whom instruction shown, 

Imperfect tho' it be, is never spurned ! 

Happy is he when lapsing years are flown, 
Calls fame's bright coronet, so dearly won, his own! 

XVII. 

Within that ancient grove how oft I 've strayed 

To pass the hour of Summer's torrid noon ; 
And musing seated 'neath the sheltering shade, 

I loved to chaunt the strains of Bonny Doon, 
Or other airs, the poet's precious boon ; 

To mind the restless bird that flitted by, 
Or the wild flower that bloomed to wither soon, 

Or the swift brook that raised its murmur nigh, 
Or in the distance heard the cock's shrill noonday 
cry. 

XVIII. 

Beside the church a well-known home appears, 

Whose door-way opes within the leafy vine ; 
Beneath that roof were passed my early years, 

While boyhood's hours of careless joy were 
mine. 
Alas, how soon those blushing buds decline ! 

Some few may bloom, yet 't is but for a day — 
And, childhood, oft such early fate is thine ; 

Others show long the blossom bright and gay. 
Comes not the frost at last that withers it away ? 

XIX. 

Can I forget the sorrow that I felt 

When for the world I left that threshold dear? 
How, often turned, my tearful vision dwelt 

On each sweet scene, while yet I linger'dnear? 



poems. bey 



How my heart bled, that never sank in fear? 

Can I forget that trying hour ? — ah, no ! 
Tho' years have flown the scenes as fresh appear 

As if they were but yesterday ago; 
Nor can they ever change but in the dust below ! 

XX. 

Oh, faithful Memory ! how dear thou art 

To him whose conscience whispers nothing ill! 
Who feels no secret gnawing at his heart, 

And bides the sequence of his wayward will! 
With dregs like these my cup shall never fill! 

Give me the calm that conscious virtue hath, 
The cloak of peace for storms of terror chill ; 

Be mine the pardoning smile for frown of 
wrath, 
Then light my step shall be along life's thorny path. 

XXI. 

Blest vision of my early home ! It seems 

Like dwelling place beyond the azure skies 
To the good man who wanders in his dreams 
Beyond the point where Time's dark bound'ry 
lies. 
Long on it yet may dwell my wishful eyes ! 

There may I rest me from my toilsome way. 
When pilgrims cease to roam delusion flies, 

But Hope's bright star shall cheer them with 
# its ray, 
Till light succeeds to light in never-ending day.' 



i>U POEMS. 



AUTUMN. 

Autumn, thou garner of the year ! 
Again thy sober step is here ; 
Again thy mellow scenes appear 

In russet clad r 
Abounding with thy wonted cheer, 

To make us glad. 

The Spring may boast her flowers fah% 
And Summer all her charms declare ; 
But, Autumn, 't is thy saddened air 

Charms most my heart ! 
King of the ever-rolling year, 

I own thou art ! 

The morning opens fresh and chill. 
The mist from off the winding rill 
Creeps slowly up the neighboring hill, 

And o'er away ; 
And early cocks, distant and shrill, 

Usher the day. 

Betimes aroused, the well-paid sower 
Throws open wide the folding door, 
And spreads upon the threshing-floor 

The wheaten sheaves ; 
And in their heads, now beaten sore, 

No grain he leaves. 

I love to hear the sounding flail. 
It always tells a busy tale 
Of ruddy health, and labor hale, 

With plenty blest : 
"Seed time and harvest" ne'er should fail 
Beneath its test. 



POEMS. 57 

The forest bellows forth a sound — 
The sportsman walks his murderous round, 
And squirrels tumble to the ground, 

And pheasants die ; 
While, coursing far, the deep-mouthed hound 

Yelps quick and high. 

See yonder o'er the furrowed plain, 
Attracted by the scattered grain, 
The pigeons in a countless train 

Now densely throng ; 
Anon they form a lengthened chain, 
And skim along. 

Ye woody hills that tower near ! 
Whilom your shades were filled with deer, 
And the red Indian, too, was here , 

But long ago 
Did every antler disappear, 

And Indian, too. 

And Autumn mourns the sylvan chief — 
Her wailing winds bespeak her grief; 
The faded flower and falling leaf 

Bewail his end ; 
While she withholds the yellow sheaf 

She used to lend.* 

Is then our rich corn-harvest done, 
And the bright ears forever gone ? 
Tho' grieving sore, I frankly own 

The grievance just — 

*For several preceding years (1837) the fall months have 
grown so cold that it has been with extreme difficulty that In- 
dian corn could be ripened at all; and farmers in some parts 
of New-England have abandoned the raising of the article al- 
together, for the same reason. 

5 



58 



POEMS. 



Our fathers ploughed, and we have sown 
In hopeful trust ; 

But wrongs of a departed race 
Rise up to stare me in the face, 
And there, methinks, the cause I trace 

Of this our grief; 
Once 'twas no sin, but rather grace. 

To steal a sheaf !* 

The sun has climbed to noonday high. 
See the shorn fields around me lie 
Beneath the dingy, smoky sky, 

Pleasant to view; 
Beyond the gauzy veil descry 

The vault of blue I 

Hark to the sounds of boyish glee 
That come from yon tall hickory ; 
The gleaners mount the breezy tree, 

And thresh the limbs f 
And oft one bids another see 

How high he climbs ! 

Pomonai here with fulness crowned 
Showers her fruit upon the ground ; 
Scattered in golden heaps around 

She spreads her board ; 
With plenty all her gifts abound, 

Her garners stored. 

Mind ye those distant sounds that come 
Upon the ear, resembling some 

♦Alluding to the unchristianlike treatment of the abor iginal 
tribes by the white settlers who first took possession. They re- 
garded the Indian as no better than a wild beast of the forest, 
and oftentimes plundered his wigwam and stole his corn. 

f The goddess of fruita. 



59 



The rolling, rattling, stirring drum, 

Tho' sharp and shrill ? 

A merry thing, and nowise dumb — 
The cider-mill. 

But now 'tis getting out of date ; 
The people have conceived a hate 
Of this old-fashioned thing of late, 

And worse than all, 
The few that stand can hardly wait 

Their time to fall. 

I marvel not that it is so. 
Streams change their channels as they go, 
And some forever cease to flow, 

Sun-dried at last ; 
The cider stream is running low — 

Its flood is past. 

Some persons of discerning wit 
Complain that men have wasted it, 
Who deemed its juices all unfit 

For wholesome drink. 
But here the subject let me quit — 

The more to think. 

The day now hastens to a close, 
The weary sun to his repose ; 
Skirting the woods the restless crows 

Croak discontent ; 
And from the field the ploughman goes, 

Slow homeward bent 

Yonder is Nimrod's hopeful son, 
With trap in hand and shouldered gun ; 
Now that the day of toil is done 

He seeks the mead 



60 POEMS. 

In which the marsh-fed streamlets run, 

And musk-rats breed. 

There by the dusky fading light 
He lays his snares with practised sleight, 
So artfully concealed from sight 

And baited well, 
That none except the cunning wight 

The trap could tell. 

Twilight is past. Night shuts the scene I 
The spreading plains of faded green, 
The woody hills, the vales between, 

And streams that roar, 
Illumed by Phoebus' glittering sheen, 

Are seen no more. 

Day and its scenes no more inspire ; 
But see around the evening fire 
The halesome youth and sober sire, 

The matron dame, 
The sprightly lass in plain attire — 

We ken the same. 

O, ye who love a city's noise, 
Who pride yourselves on tinseled toys, 
Whose stupid ease the mind destroys, 

A showy host ! 
Behold the cotter's humble joys — 

New-England's boast ! 

Autumn, thou dost a moral give 
To teach us mortals how to live ; 
Not for this world alone to strive — 

It cannot last ; 
Nor for its shining sands to grieve — 

They 're sliding fast. 



POEMS- 61 

Spring, the gay morn of life is gone ; 
Summer, and manhood's bloom, are flown; 
Autumn, and age come hastening on, 

While Winter's breath 
Seems with its chilling hollow moan 

To usher death. 

So, mortal, live that not the shade 
Of that grim king can make afraid 
When low beneath the turf is laid 

Thy "house of clay"; 
And like pale Autumn calmly fade 

In death away. 



ON READING BEATTIE'S "MINSTREL." 

Beattie ! 't was thine to charm the feeling heart ; 
To still the tumult of the troubled soul ; 
To thee did gracious heaven the power impart 
To point the eye that read the sceptic's scroll, 
To the bright pages which are Zion's goal. 
To free the mind, distracted sore and riven, 
From scepticism's impious control, 
No more by earth's phosphoric glare misgiven, 
To seek beyond the grave eternal home in heaven. 

What lofty power incited thee to sing 1 
What hand divine attuned thy warbling lyre?- 
Did instinct set thee to imagining 
The living numbers of the sainted choir? 
Ah, like their strains thine own may never tire! 
If while on earth transporting were thy lays, 
What holy rapture must thee now inspire, 
Since thou art called from us on high to raise 
Thy voice forevermore to the Almighty's praise ! 
5* 



62 POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO T. s********. 

Oct. 1837. 

Dear Friend, all Nature seems to frown, 
And heavy clouds are dripping down ; 
While I, for want of something better, 
Have thought to dictate you a letter. 
Its faults I pray you to excuse, 
For I shall not o'ertax the muse : 
But as the sailor on the sea 
Hails the first landfall on his lee, 
So I, what thoughts come first in sight, 
Without ado the same shall write. 

It oft has been my lot to roam 
Far from my native land and home ; 
But then 't was sweet to bear in mind 
The friends of mine were left behind ; 
And, sir, believe me, not another 
Has stood between you and my brother. 
Oft I 've recalled with backward look 
The joys of which we both partook : 
How often by the river's shore } 

We 've listened to the torrent's roar, > 

The scene of strife in days of yore*; j 

Or searched for relics of a race 
Who there once had a dwelling-place ; 
Or gathered grapes, both sweet and good ; 
Or pulled the fishes from the flood ; 
And how at eve we 've set afloat 
Upon the sleeping stream our boat, 
With stealthy oar, and gun in hand 
To shoot the rat that swam to land ; 

^Turner's Falls in the Connecticut, the scene of a desperate 
battle with the Indians in 1676.-— See note to Lines to a bullet. 



POEMS. 63 

And how the midnight moon has shone 
Upon us ere our cruise was done. 
Dost thou these scenes remember well 1 
Then I '11 no longer on them dwell. 

But oh ! long years have rolled away 
Since thus we walked in sportive play ; 
And I have wandered on this earth, 
Far from the land that claims my birth. 
Mine it has often been to scan 
The varied forms and ways of man. 
Permit Experience to advise, 
Nor deem him therefor overivise : 

First, then, if restless thoughts incline 
Your feet to stray as strayed have mine, 
O, be content and stay at home ! 
* If favored here they 're fools who roam. 
Believe, dear friend, a wanderer's tale — 
There 's not on earth a sweeter vale, 
Where friendship hale extends the hand ; 
Where farmers till a better land ; 
Where yeomen vigorously thrive, 
Who will industriously strive ; 
Where less you see the poor man's hut, 
Than thy sweet vale, Connecticut ! 
To this remark your thoughts apply, 
While I will reason secondly : 

Trust not ajone to outward show ; 
J T is not for man the heart to know. 
Fair looks will oft disguise the foul— 
A generous boast the stingy soul ; 
And I have found full oft the case, 
The seeming good to be the base. 



64 POEMS. 

At every time, in every place, 
Respect thyself with modest grace ; 
Hearken to admonition sage ; 
Revere the frosty head of age. 
Should open insult rouse thy ire 
Then show the true New- England fire ; 
But think not every slight offence 
A matter of such consequence. 

Deem not thyself — (perish rather)— 
Wiser than thy honored faiher. 
I once observed from out of college 
A Freshman, yet so full of knowledge, 
He thought himself its true possessor 
As much as any famed professor. 

Never despise thy avocation ; 
It is the proudest in the nation ! 
Who 's less dependent than he who 
Depends alone on God to do ? 
Contented be, till strength shall fail 
To hold the plough, and swing the flail. 

On other points to keep you steady, 
No doubt you are advised already. 
And so may "all the joys of sense" 
Be yours — " health, peace, and competence"! 

But one word more before I close : 
So long as yonder river flows ; 
So long as verdure decks its shore, 
Or o'er yon rocks its torrents pour ; 
Till Death shall soul and body sever, 
My early friend, I 'm thine forever. — 



POEMS. 

INDEPENDENCE. 

I. 

Genius of Independence, list ! 

In whate'er form thou dost exist — 

Where'er thou dost abide ; 
Tho' ignorant of these lesser things, 
I view thee o'er the heads of kings, 

Despite their haughty pride. 
The monarch on his envied throne 

In golden chains may shine, 
While humble worth that lives unknown 
May be a son of thine. 

Far better the latter ! 

Devoid of dazzling show, 
His treasures are pleasures 
That princes never know. 

II. 

The truly independent soul, 
Unawed by popular control, 

Unseen in fashion's ways, 
Is like a taper burning bright, 
Which dissipates the gloom of night 

With solitary rays. 
Alas, how few such lights appear 

In this dark world to burn ! 
And mostly those which glimmer here 
We scarcely can discern. 

A fair thing 's a rare thing, 
Tho' found in any place ; 
A rover world over 

Will say 'tis aye the case. 

III. 

There is that would be thought to be 
A son of thine, accepted, free, — 



65 



66 POEMS. 

'T is only outward mien ; 
The wind he illy can abide 
Strips off at last the lion's hide 

And shows the ass within. 
These spurious cases will abound 

In plenty everywhere ; 
The genuine is seldom found- 
More rich for being rare. 

These must fall to dust all, 
As counterfeiters should ; 
Those flourish, and nourish 
The vital seeds of good. 

IV. 

Thine, Independence, is a gift 
As spotless as the pearly drift, 

As flying comets rare ; 
'T is noble in its very name, 
In all its varied forms the same, 

In all refulgent fair. 
Above our ills and troubles here 

It bears the spirit high ; 
It shields the soul from every fear 
And quells the swelling sigh. 

And the mind, tho' confined 

In life to humble sphere, 
It reaches, and teaches 
This rule, "Thyself revere.."* 

V 

Now for myself a boon I ask, 
I hope to grant it is no task ; 

O, lift me from the rout ! 
When Meanness sneaks within my door, 
And Selfishness shall tread my floor, 

Help me to kick them out. 



POEMS. 67 

Grant that my heart be warm and free, 

Nor frankness want the less ; 
Whatever I appear to be 
That same may I possess. 

'T is well, then, to tell men 

The faults to which they're blind, 
When ailings or failings 
Are of a grievous kind. 

VI. 

Is there a "fellow-worm" on earth, 

Who, puffed with wealth or fancied worth, 

Pretends o'er me to rule ? 
Then deep within my bosom lies 
A something prompts me to despise 

The pitiable fool. 
I scorn him from my inmost heart 

And hate his self-conceit, 
Tho' half the world should take his part 
And willing kiss his feet. 

'T is high-born, 'tis sky-born, 

The ruling Power I own, 
W 7 ho framed me and named me 
Inferior to none. 



TO A MINK. 

On seeing one in the Wapesapenacon, Oct. 1837, 

Thou little water-haunting sprite [ 
1 wonder at thy great delight 
In lonely stream and murky night, 

And life so wet ; 
I fain would tame thee, if I might, 

And have a pet. 



68 POEMS. 

You 'd find such treatment as I think 
You never yet have had, poor mink ! 
With meat to eat and milk to drink, 

And fish for game ; 
No chain upon thy limbs should clink, 
So thou wert tame. 

But now your home is in a bog, 
Thy resting place a fallen log, 
Thy food a nasty snake or frog, 

And then you dread 
The hunter's bloody, searching dog, 
Or fear his lead. 

The trapper wants thy furry hair 
Which thou as much art loath to spare, 
And so he lays the cruel snare 

For thy poor feet ; 
Unthinking man, thy arts forbear- 
Its life is sweet ! 

Dame Nature made thee not in haste, 
But tried a dozen times, at least, 
Her hand at forming other beast, 

Both nice and neat, 
Ere she began to show her taste 

In thee complete. 

But whither hurriest thou away ? 
In the cold brook to frisk and play, 
This frosty, chill October day ? 

Dost spurn my proffer f 
Alackaday ! you J ll scarcely stay 

To hear me offer. 

I read your answer as you flee : 
"I love the sweets of liberty ; 



POEMS. 

No doubt you would be good to me, 

And treat me well ; 

But then the joy of being free — 

Ah, who can tell ? 

So marvel not that I decline 
Being just now a pet of thine ; 
You choose your life, so do I mine. 

Contented aye, 
Nor shall I at my lot repine — 

So go your way !" 

Well, timid thing, I 've heard thy plea, 
And for as much will credit thee ; 
But you are off and gone, I see, 

So I will go, 
And with my lot I '11 try to be 

Contented, too. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con, I love 
Along thy banks at eve to rove 

In converse with the muse, 
When calm the sun has gone to rest 
And tinged the arches of the west 

With rosy colored hues. 

To hear thy waters chiming flow 
As onward they meandering go 

To join the parent stream ; 
To sit me down beside a tree 
Whose tangled feet are laved in thee, 

And o'er some vision dream. 



6 



70 POEMS. 



TO ^OLUS. 



I. 

Old iEolus, thou king of winds ! 
My rustic muse delighted finds 

In thee whereof to sing ; 
To thee she tunes this simple lay, 
And owns the charm-bestowing sway 

Which thy free zephyrs bring. 
Oft has she listened to thy strains 

In some lone cot afar, 
When thro' the chinks and broken panes 
They stole upon her ear ! 
So lowly, so slowly, 

The solemn plaintive moan ; 
Then clearly and cheerly 
Piping a lofty tone. 

II. 

How rich thy tones when Autumn sere 
Beckons thy airy harpers here 

To sing the falling leaf, 
The hunter's gaily winding horn, 
The yellow fields of waving corn, 

The heavy-nodding sheaf ! 
Now with a distant hollow roar 

They sweep the forest aisle, 
Now whining at the cottage door 
With their peculiar wail. 

Then lifting and drifting 

The forest leaves at will, 
Or straying and swaying 
The oaks upon the hill. 

III. 

And when November from the north 
Invites the early winter forth, 



POEMS. 71 

Beside the evening fire, 
Within my dwelling bright and warm 
I '11 bide the warring of the storm, 

And list thy sounding lyre. 
Again, those solemn strains I hear, 

Struck by thy hand unseen ! 
Amid the pausing storm's career 
And fitful gusts between. 

I muse then, and choose then 
In Fancy's realm to roam ; 
My mind there shall find there 
Her welcome, native home ! 

IV. 

When life's stern cares around me frown, 
And sorrows weigh my spirits down, 

I never own their power ; 
But wake my viol's slumbering lay, 
And o'er its gliding numbers play 

To cheat the weary hour. 
But let me catch a trembling tone 

Of thy strange minstrelsy, 
O, JEolus, I '11 drop my own 
And yield the palm to thee ! 
It thine is, not mine is, 

Those magic sounds to draw ; 
So airy-like, so fairy-like, 
They fill my soul with awe ! 

V. 

The man, who pleased with Nature well, 
Delights upon her works to dwell, 

Abundant theme may find 
For sage reflection and review, 
For meditation, hourly new, 

E'en in the hollow wind. 



72 POEMS. 



Send then, ye winds, your tuneful breath — 

My muse, well-pleased, shall hear, 
Until the icy hand of death 
Lies heavy on her ear. 

And blest, then, with rest, then, 

Upon her lowly bed, 
Ye J ll stray there, and play there 
A dirge above the dead ! 



It is an honor for a man to cease from strife; but every fool 
vrillbe meddling.— Prove bbs XX, 3. 

O, ye who make so much ado 
About what never troubled you ! 
Do ye believe the Bible true — * 

The rule of life? 
Then take a reasonable view 

Of this your "strife," 

This is an age of wondrous things ; 
Since Folly has the leading strings, 
Discretion, spurned, her treasure flings 

To the four winds ; 
While here and there a wise one clings 

To what he finds. 

But this surprises me the most : 
To hear deluded people boast 
They still possess what they have lost, 

Or never had ; 
It certainly would seem a host 

Of them were mad. 

Some rave about the public weal ; 
And some in strange devotion kneel ; 



POEMS. " 

While wisely others think they feel 

For human woes, 

But gash the wound they strive to heal — 

What else, deil knows ! 

The zealot here, by frenzy driven, 
Proclaims that to himself is given 
To point a better road to heaven, 

And far more near 
Than that in which poor souls have striven 
For many a year. 

The pious son now leaves the road 
In which his sainted father trode 
And to his erring infant showed, 

As too uneven ; 
For he has found a wiser mode 

Of reaching heaven. 

And here the politician stands 
Upon a stage "not made with hands, "* 
And tells the rabble his commands ; 

The gazing throng 
Deem him the savior of their lands, 

And never wrong. 

But there 's a wonder far more great, 
Which I must venture to narrate ; 
Should woman in affairs of state 

Put forth a hand T 
Yet even so it is of late 

In this our land. 

Exceptions always I permit ; 
So now I readily acquit 

♦The "stump orator." 

6* 



74 roEMs. 

A portion of this ruling fit — 

To such all grace ! 
They stay at home to spin and knit — 

Their better place, 

But yonder super-brilliant mind 
Is not thus cruelly confined 
To slavish drudgery unkind ; 

How hard her fate, 
That man alone, so weak and blind, 

Should legislate ! 

That he the sacred desk should fill, 
And only curb the froward will ! 
He only wield the potent quill 

To write the law, 
While she, poor soul, must lack the will 

To pick a flaw ! 

This present season of the age 
Societies are all the rage ; 
And then behold the scribbled page— 

A long petition ! 
The ladies think they must engage 

In abolition. 

Alas, what bitter sighs they draw 
For miseries they never saw ! 
Their cheeks with frequent weeping raw. 

More tears to save ; 
But render worse the evil law 

That holds the slave. 

Mistaken souls, refrain from sighs, 
And wipe the tear-drops from your eyes ! 
Wait till the negro on you cries 

For all this aid ; 



POEIKS. 75 

Until that time ; t were far more wise 
Were it delayed. 

And thus the matter seems to me : 
For you to fret at slavery- 
Is meddling in the Jirsi degree ; 

So pray forbear, 
And let the holy proverb be 

Your constant care. 

Ladies, you have my best respects ! 
But, meddlers, of whatever sex 
Let me beseech you do not vex 

On my account ; 
It dries the social spring, and checks 

The very fount! 



Wealth maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from 
his neighbor.— Proverbs XIX, 4. 

Whene'er we ope the Holy Book, 

How true the words we read ! 
Upon these words I chanced to look, 

And find them truth, indeed. 

<i Wealth maketh many friends ;" 't is so — 

Our daily converse shows it; 
Wealth has the gift of weal or wo ; 

Where is the man but knows it ? 

I will not say 't is aye the case, 

But very oft we see 
This wealth is but a handsome face 

O'er sad deformity. 

How oft the vilest of mankind 

Mount Fortune's glittering throne ! 



76 POEMS. 



How oft the man who lacks the mind 
To "say his soul's his own" ! 

How oft the wealthy fop we note, 

With proudly curling lip, 
With whom, but strip him of his coat, 

No ass would fellowship ! 

"Wealth mzketh friends" ! — the Lord ibrfend 

I should gainsay his truth, 
But other term than that of friend 

Will do as well, forsooth. 

Call we those friends who have the name 

But not the friendly heart ? 
Who only play the winning game — 

A meanly selfish part 1 

From all such "friends" deliver me ! 

I '11 never court their smiles ; 
Kind Heaven has granted me to see 

Their hollow-hearted wiles. 

The poor man liveth by himself; 

This truth is past dispute ; 
He looks on Fortune's shining pelf; 

As on "forbidden fruit." 

But oft the ragged coat may hide 

The soul of sterling worth ; 
As precious gems awhile abide 

The foul embrace of earth. 

And on the score of earthly friends, 

But few to him are given ; 
But haply oft the poor man minds 

A trusty friend in heaven. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

Blest is the man who walketh not 
Where godless wretches meet, 

Nor standeth in the sinner's way, 
Nor fills the scorner's seat. 

The precepts and the law of God 

Are chiefly his delight ; 
He ponders o'er them all the day 

And dreams of them at night. 

And he shall be like fruitful tree 

Fast by the living flood, 
That bringeth forth, in proper time, 

Abundant fruit and good. 

No drought shall wither up his leaves, 
Or parch his spreading root; 

The gentle dews shall wet his head, 
And waters lave his foot. 

How different the ungodly man ! 

How light and vain his mind ! 
In all his works he 's like the chaff 

That drives before the wind. 

With righteous ones he shall not stand 

Before the Judge of all ; 
The ways of those shall please the Lord, 

But he shall surely fall. 



78 POEMS. 

ELEGY, 

On visiting the grave of Ebenezer Smith, Esq. in 

the south parish of New-Mar [borough, 

Berkshire. 

Come hither, every unhanged knave ! 

Exult your utmost here ; 
Come Folly's stupid, willing slave ! 

Villains, draw near ! 
Justice is dead and in the grave — 

You need not fear ! 

Here, Truth, a weeping pilgrim be 1 
Come, Honor, Wisdom, Worth ! 
And here, O smiling Pleasantry, 

Forget thy mirth L 
A favored one of all of ye 

Sleeps in the earth. 

Come hither, heavy-burthened Want, 

And breathe thy tale of wo ! 
Thy scalding tears without restraint 
Shall freely flow ; 
For he who heard thy sad complaint 
Slumbers below. 

Here Poverty's lone widow weeps, 

And Sorrow's orphans come. 
Now that your kind reliever sleeps 

In his long home, 
No other earthly guardian keeps 

Avert your doom. 

Sons of unkind Misfortune, mourn \ 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Did he who lies here ever spurn 

You from his door ? 



POEMS. 79 

Alas ! that from beyond this bourn 

He comes no more ! 

Arouse, ye patriot sons of arms ! 

Rally around this grave : 
No more awaked by war's alarms, 

Here lies a brave, 
Who left his own domestic charms 

Your homes to save. 

Turn, infidel, that passest by ! 
Thy hapless hearing lend ; 
Here loud a warning voice doth cry — 

To it attend ! 
Pray that like good men when they die 

May be your end. 

Christian believer, hither stray 

And read this sculptured stone ; 
A walker in the "narrow way," 

Was this just one. 
How sweet at eve to rest when day 

And toil are gone ! 

Ye saints in Heaven above, rejoice \ 

Rank'd in your solemn choir, 
Mingles the noble, well-tuned voice 

Of our grandsire ; 
And thankfully I '11 bide his choice 
For me a lyre! 



INVOCATION OF THE MUSES. 
1. 

All hail, ye bard-inspiring Nine! 
The gift of poesy is thine — 
Do thou inspire my lays^ 



80 POEMS. 

That when I tune my lyre again, 
I Ml strike a richer, sweeter strain, 

And, grateful, sing thy praise. 
Or in some wild and lonely glen, 

Far hid from vulgar sight, 
Oh, give to me a living pen 
My burning thoughts to write ! 

There thinking, while drinking 

Deep at thy hidden spring > 
And writing my flighting 
On Fancy's airy wing. 

II. 

I do not ask to soar too high, 
Beyond the ken of mortal eye- 
It savors ill with me ; 
But o'er the forest and the plain, 
The welling spring, and roaring main, 

And paint the things I see. 
With Nature hand in hand to stray 

Along sequestered walk, 
At sombre eve or garish day, 
And hold familiar talk. 

And rhyming and chiming 

Upon my rustic lyre, 
Well mingling and jingling 
With Nature's tuneful choir. 

in. 

I '11 sing the labors of the field, 

The comforts which those labors yield, 

The joys of rural life; 
Unmindful of the clamor loud 
That makes the city's dusty crowd 

The scene of wordly strife. 
I '11 note the season fleeting by, 

Their changes as they roll ; 



POEMS. 81 



And all the wonders of the sky 
At eve shall feast my soul. 

Oh, hear me, nor fear ye ! — 

No hypocrite that prays ; 

But send now, and lend thou 

A leaf of Nature's lays ! 



LINES 

Written beneath an Indian moon^ west of the Mis- 
sissippi. 

Sweet is the cradle of my life — 

The valley of my native stream ; 
Where first my eyes were ope'd to see 

The sun that lit life's morning dream. 
Dear is that home, around whose shrine, 

A happy band of brothers we, 
Studied in calm retreat the map 

Of pictured ideality. 

But ah ! Time since has bid us trace 

The w T ondrous mazes of that chart ; 
And from our father's door we went 

With willing foot but heavy heart. 
But one sGon wearied in the way, 

And gently sunk in slumber deep ; 
Then Death came to him as he lay, 

And bade he should forever sleep ! 

Sadly the pilgrims journied on 

With aching hearts and footsteps slow ; 

And oft they paused to muse on him 
Who mouldered in the earth below. 

Time o'er them flew on airy wing — 
Their pathway more uneven grew ; 
7 



82 POEMS. 

Till as they climbed the steep to-day ; 
To-morrows's hill appeared in view. 

A phantom bright with Syren voice, 

Lured me the while to list her lay ; 
Careless of aught I wandered on 

A thousand weary miles astray. 
But ah ! deceitful was that voice ! 

Tho' seeming near 'twas still afar, 
So shines upon this moon-Jit night 

The twinkling ray of yonder star. 



SOLITUDE. 

Have poets sung thee, Solitude ? Then one, 
Tho' far less gifted, erreth not alone. 
What though he mingles in the haunts of men, 
And seems to share their joyousness — ah ! then 
What mortal knows his loneliness of heart! 
Not thou, ye fawning hypocrite, whose part 
To play in life's great drama is deceit ; 
Whose heart contemns him whom w x ith smiles ye 

greet. 
Not thou, ye better born, ye frank of soul — 
By truth advised, unawed by proud control. 
Not these, indeed — none of the human kind 
Know of the poet's solitude of mind. 



What treasures has Nature, in happy mood, 
Reposed to thy keeping, O Solitude! 
The flowering prairie, so wildly fair, 
Perfuming the breeze with its balmy air. 
Unbounded the prospect — how brightly green, 
When first in freshness of morn it is seen ! 
When the passing wind gives to it motion, 






POEMS. 83 

How like the wide-rolling wave of ocean ! 
Will man to these beautiful plains ever come 
To plant his dominion and build his home ? 
Can the hum of his commerce awake the ear 
Where trips in the stillness the light-footed deer? 
Yes, yonder the smoke of his cottage I see — 
The whiteman is robbing thy prairie from thee. 

Now to the deep forest you '11 go with me, 
Where the old moss covers the youngest tree, 
W T here the sun-light scarce enters, so deep is the 

shade, 
And the veteran wood-nymphs for ages have play'd. 
Here, too, for ages, their tops to the breeze 
Majestic'ly swaying, these old oak trees 
Have reared their high heads, while the leafy vine 
Has wrap'd their old trunks in its close entwine. 
The deep voice of Tempe here speaks from the past; 
'T is low in the zephyr and loud in the blast; 
It opens the soul to a vastness of thought 
Ungathered from lore and by science untaughtr 
Will Time ever see thee, proud forest, laid low, 
A prey to the axe with its death-giving blow ? 
Will the whiteman, intrusive, here open his way 
Where the night-wolf now waits for the close of 

the day ? 
Will these solitudes hear his shrill whistle at morn, 
Or his loud "harvest home" w T hen he garners his 

corn ? 
Oh ! ask of himself, for behold he is near, 
And the signs of his coming already are here. 

The Indian in his light canoe 
Floats on thy lake of polished blue ; 
And as his bark and form appear 
Mirrored below, so deep, so clear, 



84 POEMS. 



To the Great One he breathes a prayer 
To thank him for his being there. 
Nature's own child ! thy treasures are 
These solitudes, so wildly fair ; 
Thy oaks still stand as when at first 
This gay world on thy vision burst, 
Whose branches 'neath a vernal sky 
With greenness filled thy joyous eye, 
Thy father taught thee by this lake, 
When young, thy birchen skiff to make; 
And often to thy dashing oar 
The sounding caverns of its shore 
Murmured response ; and oft thy song 
Has woke their echoes, loud and long ! 
Fleet is the foot of dappled doe, 
But fleeter arrow from thy bow ; 
Oft hast thou chased the hours away 
From earliest morn till setting day, 
And when the prairie hid thy game, 
'Mid the tall grass you lit the flame. 
But, Indian, thy glad dream is o'er — - 
The whiteman waits for thee ashore ! 
Wisconsin Territory, Oct. 1836. 



HAPPINESS— AN ACROSTIC, 

Hail Happiness ! who can the word define ? 
All search for it as for a hidden mine 
Placed deep within the bowels of the earth, 
Pregnant with golden ores of untold worth. 
It 's like the stone which alchymists would get, 
Numbers have sought but none have found it yet. 
Earth has it not. It is a fabled thing \ 

Short-sighted mortals follow on the wing, > 

Serving the bard as theme whereof to sing. j 



POEMS. S5 

LOGAN. 

Note.— Every one, doubtless, has beard of Logan, the cel- 
ebrated Mingo chief. His eloquence awed his red brethren 
when he spoke at the council-fire, and occasional fragments 
thereof are preserved to us which will never fail of eliciting ad- 
miration. His defence before Lord Dunmorf , of Virginia, is 
fraught with native talent which cannot enough be appreciated. 
Mr. Jefferson was happily sensible of the fact, and "challenged 
the admirers of Cicero or Demosthenes to produce a finer spe- 
cimen." Logan was notedly the friend of the whiteman; and 
the sad sfory of his wrongs, particularly the barbarous murder 
of'his whole family on the Kanawha river, by Col. Cresap, was 
the principal theme of discourse in his letter to Gov. Dunmore, 
of which the following is an imperfect versification. 

'Mid the silence of night a wild vision I saw — 
The ghosts of the dead rose before me in awe ! 
They passed me unnoticed till Logan arose, 
The friend of the whiteman, the fear of his foes. 

He stood in the shade of a sun-hiding hill, 
As stands the lone oak when the whirlwind is still; 
While eve's mingled colors of sable and grey- 
Were slowly suppressing the blush of the day. 

Unbowed was his form by the burden of years ; 
Tho' sad was his heart in his eye were no tears ; 
The first distant star of the evening that shone 
Incited to speak as in years that are flown : 

"Ah, who is there mourneth for Logan ? not one ! 
His hearth is deserted, his wigwam is lone ; 
The joy of his bosom is earth's hallowed trust, 
His children have gone to their sleep in the dust. 

"I fearless appeal to the whiteman to say 

If he e'er from my cabin went hungry away ; 

Ifl lent to his wo an unpitying ear, 

Or wiped not his eye from the grief-bidden tear. 

"When the clangor of war echoed last thro' the land 
Not Logan was seen at the head of his band, 



86 POEMS. 

But idly remained in his wigwam the while, 
And anxiously waited of peace the glad smile. 

"My love to the whiteman was steadfast and true. 
Unlike the deep hatred my red brothers knew ; 
With him I had thought to have cherished my home, 
No more o'er the forest or prairie to roam. 

"When the leaf which pale autumn is scattering 

now, 
Was fresh from its budding and green on the bough, 
My heart was turned back into winter again— 
No warm summer sun can dissolve its cold chain. 

"Till Kanawha's flood in its channel shall fail, 
There yet is a witness that noteth my tale ; 
The forms of my kindred surround me no more — 
Their bones are unknown in the sands of its shore! 

"As lurketh the wolf, unprovoked, for his prey, 
So darkly in ambush the white traitor lay ; 
No soul of my ill-fated kindred remains — 
There runs not a drop of my blood in their veins ! 

''This woke me to vengeance — to vengeance I rose; 
'Mongst whitemen I sought for my bitterest foes. 
The ghosts of the dead are appeased by their sire, 
I have glutted my vengeance, but scorn to retire. 

"I joy for my country that peace should appear, 
But harbor no thought like the gladness of fear ; 
Logan's heart is a stranger to cowardly strife — 
He turns not his heel for the saving of life. 

"Ah, who is there mourneth for Logan 1 not one ! 
His spirit is broken, he fain would be gone ; 
The ghosts of his fathers are beckoning him home. 
Great Spirit, receive me — Oriska, I come !" 



POEMS. 0/ 



A mantle of clouds veiled the form from my sight 
And the phantom was blent with the shadows of 

night. 
Soon morning awoke with the beams of the day ; 
But chief and his nation have hasted away. 



Your fathers, where are they 1 and the prophets, do they live 
forever 1 — Zechariah I, 5. 

My patriot fathers, where are ye ? 
At rest within your earthly bed. 
Fame bids your memory hallowed be, 

Tho' years have fled. 

Veterans, whose hearts were valor's own, 
In war's soul-testing furnace tried! 
Thy bleeding country's calls, once known, 
Were ne'er denied. 

Heroes, who heard the 'larum shout 
That echoing sped throughout the land> 
And first upon the turf ranged out, 

With sword in hand. 

Left their warm hearths without dismay, 
Their weeping wives and children dear, 
And calmly tore themselves away 

Without a tear ! 

Who stood on Bunker's awful height 
And gave defiance to the foe, 
When streamed the deadly volley bright — 
The work of wo ! 

Shall Monmouth's field forgotten lie ? 
And glorious Saratoga won ? 



88 POEMS. 



Can we forget our poeans high 

At Bennington ? 

Neither can I forget the few 

Who bared their patriot breasts to fight, 

Whose motives never coward knew, 

Nor could requite. 

Father in Heaven, thy child desires — 
With what of aught he may be blest— 
The spirit of his patriot sires 

On him may rest ! 



A FRAGMENT. 

Oh ! happy that mortal to whom it is given 
To rest from his task when with toil he has striven ! 
His footsteps are weary when thousands of miles 
He strays from that land where his early home 

smiles ; 
When Time in his record hath noted the year 
Full often since home, with its blessings, was near. 
But joyful at last in his hail of return, 
And brighter the flame of his fireside shall burn! 
The tempest-tost vessel w T ith sail to the breeze, 
Floats wide on the storm-lifted wave of the seas, 
Till anchored at last, when the voyage is o J er, 
She furls her white wings in the shade of the shore, 
So thrice happy he when beneath his own roof 
He lists to the bitter wind howling aloof, 
Whose life-boat with fortune's mad billow has 

played, 
Till, wave-worn and weary, the haven is made. 

Wisconsin territory, Dec. 1836. 



roEMs. 89 



LINES TO A BULLET. 

Note. — This relic of antiquity was ploughed up by Mr. T. 
M. Stoughton, on the site of Turner's battle, on the Gill shore 
of the falls that bear his name, and by him presented to the au- 
thor. — Ou the morning of the 18th of May, 1676, Capt. Turner 
fell by surprise upon a tribe of Indians located on their favorite 
grounds, who, weary after a long carouse in honor of late suc- 
cesses, were despatched in great numbers before they recovered 
sufficiently to show fight. Others, in attempting to escape to 
the opposite shore, were precipitated over the cataract. In the 
whole affair about 300 are supposed to have perished ; and their 
bones and utensils are often discovered by the owners of the 
battle ground. 

Thou battered bit of ancient lead, 
I bless the day when thou wast found, 
And him who turned thee from thy bed 
Low in the ground ! 

Relic thou art of that stern day, 
When in the havoc made with life 
Thy resting place, our fathers say, 

Was red with strife. 

Hadst thou but language, veteran ball, 
Thy silence should no longer be ; 
The story of that fight should all 

Be made to me. 

How broke that fatal morn ! Without 
No eager dogs awoke the chase, 
But battle's voice and 'larum shout 

Rose stern in place. 

What bloody part to act was thine 
In that dark tragedy 1 1 5 d ask. 
1 would to know the tale were mine, 
To tell, my task. 

I doubt not but thy viewless flight 

Was winged with sudden death that day ; 



90 POEMS. 

By thee struck palsied 'mid the fight, 
The warrior lay. 

And, sharer of his bed in earth, 
His sleep of ages was thine own ; 
Till time at length has called thee forth 
To light, alone ! 

How changed to thee must earth appear, 
Awaking thus from long repose ! 
Where fed the nimble-footed deer, 

The tall grain grows. 

Here did the red-browed Sagamore 
His bitter, wo-fraught lesson learn ; 
Here did he from his wigwam door 
In sorrow turn. 

Where are those sons of nature fled 
During thy long and dreamless sleep? 
Dumb as the spirits of the dead 

For aye thou J lt keep. 

Ah, sad the ties that blend with thee, 
Dearer than history's storied page ; 
Sacred forever shalt thou be, 

Relic of age ! 

And as I prize thee, I 'd refuse 
For thee thy weight in sordid gold, 
For half thy worth by my dull muse 
Cannot be told. 

Thou battered bit of ancient lead ! 
I bless the day when thou wert found, 
And him who turned thee from thy bed 
Low in the ground. 



POEMS. 91 

RETROSPECTION. 

I love when all the world is still 

At midnight's solemn, silent hour, 
When retrospection's magic thrill 

Steals o'er the soul with matchless power — 
[ love to linger o'er the days 

Of halcyon childhood, swiftly gone ! 
When to my heart this "thorny maze" 

Seemed but a world of joy alone. 

Then memory fondly brings again 

The scenes she always bade me love : 
The verdant slope, the waving grain, 

The cool retreat in ancient grove. 
And oh, a voice is in my ear — 

The water-brook is sweet of song 
As o'er its bed of pebbles clear 

It dances merrily along. 

The lowing herd I loved to tend, 

The flocks that knew my infant voice. 
The spring where nodding oziers bend 

To shade the cooling fountain choice ; 
The woody hill where free of care 

I heard my dog's peculiar cry, 
And chased the nimble squirrel there 

Till tumbled from the tree-top high. 

Autumn, I love thy balmy breath 

That softly fanned my glowing brow, 
And sweeping o'er the nut-brown heath 

I feel its grateful influence now ! 
When in his march chill winter hoar 

With frosty crystals filled the air, 
O then rich nature's garnered store 

It was my happy lot to share ! 



92 



POEMS. 



And still around the evening fire 

I see each in their wonted seat ; 
The joyous group, both son and sire, 

Partaking of the bounteous treat. 
Wet from the press the smoking sheet 

Would aye the lengthened hours beguile 
With prosing tale, some daring feat, 

Or humor oft excite the smile. 

O time, how stilly hast thou cast 

Those early days from me apart ! 
But memory survives the past 

To trace their shadows on my heart. 
And hope's bright star shall never wane, 

Nor for my aid forget to shine, 
Till a kind heaven bids me again 

Back to that happy home of mine. 



APOSTROPHE TO NEW-ENGLAND, 

There is a land — there is a land 

To which my spirit turns, 
Whose memory warms my very heart 

With flame that ever burns. 

And on that land — and on that land 

The smiles of Heaven rest ; 
With glorious light that shineth there 

Her poorest son is blest. 

That land is free — that land is free ! 

The breeze that visits there 
Is happy symbol of that clime — 

Unfettered as the air. 

Her happy homes — her happy homes — 
How fair and bright they seem ! 



POEMS. 93 

Like fairy clime to traveler 
Who wanders in a dream. 

The painted cot — the painted cot, 

With woodbine creeping o'er ; 
The little child, just learned to run, 

At play beside the door. 

The garden neat — the garden neat, 

Where richest flowers thrive ; 
The pleasant hum that greets the ear 

From many a busy hive. 

The grassy shade — the grassy shade 

Where snowy lambkins lie ; 
The flowery mead, and limpid brook 

That wanders babbling by. 

Her happy homes — her happy homes — 

How fair and bright they seem ! 
Like fairy clime to traveler 

Who wanders in a dream. 

When Sabbath comes — when Sabbath comes 

In stillness o'er that land, 
Devotion and another world 

The thoughts of all command. 

The distant bell — the distant bell 

Floats sweetly on the air, 
And at its call full many a knee 

Is bowed in holy prayer. 

There is a land — there is a land 

To which my spirit turns, 
Whose memory warms my very heart 

With flame that ever burns ! 

Wisconsin territory, west of the Mississippi, ) 
Sabbath morning, Jan. 1837. > 



94 poems. 

Written by request during a season of very gloomy 
weather in August. 

Air — "Bonny Doon." 
Ye woodlands mourn, ye fields, ye streams. 

Ye swelling buds, ye blushing flowers ! 
Mourn for the bright and sunny beams— 
Oh, mourn for Summer's stolen hours ! 
Yon little bird with folded wing, 

That cowers 'neath the dripping bough, 
Has not the heart a song to sing ; 

Where are its merry playmates now I 

Thou summer sun, shine forth again, 

And shed thy grief-dispelling rays ! 
Smile yet on woodland, stream, and plain, 

And bless us with thy glorious days. 
So when the storms of life oppress 

And fell Despair sits brooding near, 
Bursts forth the Sun of Righteousness 

To cheer the heart and dry the tear. 



BY UMPACHENA'S RUSHING STREAM, 

Air — "Adieu, a heart-warm, fond adieu." 

By Umpachena's rushing stream 

I musing strayed at twilight hour, 
While the low sun's dim parting beam 

Looked from the west with fitful glow'r. 
The wind breathed hollow thro' the Glen; 

I caught its wild and solemn strain. — 
O, had I but a magic pen 

Those notes I 'd write, and hear again. 

It waked the chord of memory, 

Low-answering in my anxious breast ; 



l'OL'MS. 95 

My spirit sank in reverie, 

By gloomy care and sorrow press'd. 
And while I pondered o'er the past, 

And bent a forward look in vain, 
The shades of evening gathered fast 

And night veiled stream, and hill, and plain. 

But soon the wind grew hushed and still, 

The stream went gently skipping by ; 
And far beyond the woody hill 

The coming stars blinked merrily. 
Fair Cynthia rose with golden horn 

And shed her mellow light below. — 
So on the night shall burst the morn ! 

So often joy succeeds to wo ! 



LETTER 

To the Rev. D. Smith, Durham, (Ct.) with the 
request of a revolutionary relic. 

I beg you pardon and permit 

This poor effusion of my pen ; 
What if it lack in thought and wit — 

Forgive, but do not spurn it then. 

No hypocrite his thoughts would mask — 

I scorn the author of a lie ; 
J T is filial love that bids me ask 

A boon that thou wilt not deny. 

Not gold I crave — my aim is higher ; 

Not acres broad of fertile land ; 
Nor do I ask, most reverend sire, 

Unheard-of gifts from unseen hand. 



96 POEMS. 

I ask my grandsire's drinking-cup, 
From which he slaked his battle-thirst 

When he his patriot sword took up, 
In heart and hand among the first. 

And wilt thou grant it in bequest? 

I ; 11 take the gift with reverence ; 
And Heaven shall hear my warm request 

To bless thy rich benevolence. 



EPIGRAM. 

On seeing an old spar and chain sticking out of 
the church belfry for several weeks. 
Ye churchmen, cease awhile your prayer, 

And listen to my rhyme ; 
I '11 make a proposition fair 
Just in the "niclc of time." 

For six long weeks, or thereabout, 

Relieved against the sky, 
I 've seen a spar and chain stick out 

Far up the steeple high. 

Now I debated in my mind 

What good that spar could do, 
But not divining, tried to find 

Some use to put it to. 

So to the chain you'll add a crook, 

And bait it well with evil, 
And I will lay, sirs, that you '11 hook 

That graceless wight, the d — -/. 

Now for a bait I 've one in view 

That no fiend can resist. — 
Should not the proposition do, 

Pray keep the matter whist. 



POEMS. 97 

THE PRAIRIE COCK. 

A true story. 

One day, when Spring's returning sun 

Had thawed the frozen ground, 
. And made the wintry drifts to run 

In streams around, 
I sallied forth with shouldered gun, 

For shooting bound. 

Glad once to see the sun again, 

And heedless where I strayed, 
I wandered to a prairie plain, 

And halting made 
To look about, nor yet in vain 

The scene surveyed. 

For as I stood with ears erect, 
And vision nowise blurred, 
I in the distance did detect, 

And plainly heard 
The hollow voice, 1 did suspect. 

Of prairie-bird. — 

(A vaunting fowl, this prairie-cock — 

A silly, boastful thing ; 
But oft the hunter's skill he '11 mock 

And take to wing ; 
And from a thousand in a flock 

Not one he '11 bring.) — 

Thinking himself secure, no doubt, 

The distance was so great, 
The cock began to strut about 

At furious rate, 
With wings dropp'd down and tail spread out, 
And step elate. 
8* 



98 



The sight was tempting for a shot — 

Tho 5 distant, he was bold ; 
The story, then, it matters not 

How soon 't is told : : 
I sent a bullet to the spot 

And laid him cold. 

And as I stooped to pick him up 

I thus soliliquized : 
"Poor thing ! your overflowing cup 

Was soon capsized ; 
Upon your carcass I shall sup, 

Unless surprised. 

"I '11 gather from this emblem small 

A moral, if I may; 
Thy fate reminds me of a fall 

Before to-day j— 
Pride, let it tower however tall, 

Must sure decay. 

"How oft we mark the self-conceit 

That struts and shuffles by, 
That in the gutter of the street 

Ere long may lie !" 
Reader, [{pride entice thy feet, 

Oh ! turn and fly. 



DEATH SONG. 

Tune— "Roslin Castle.' 

Adieu ye gloomy walls of stone, 
Where guilt and crime in fetters groan ! 
That long have been my living tomb, 
Awaiting this my dreadful doom. 



POEMS. 99 

Adieu ray prison comrades all ! 
Hear Justice for me sternly call ; 
I go to answer his demands, 
And yield my life beneath his hands. 

Lo! the vast crowds that throng around 
To see me leap the mortal bound ! 
While my poor eye bewildered roams 
To where the waiting gibbet glooms. 
Hark ! to the death-march rolling slow, 
As onward to the bourn we go; 
With muffled drum and wailing fife 
I bid my last farewell to life ! 

"Was it for crimes that I had done" 
The Father sent his only Son 
Down from his throne in heaven high, 
On this polluted earth to die ? 
Then standing in the fatal rope 
In his forgiveness let me hope, 
Nor at the awful summons quail 
When the frail prop beneath me fail. 



Oft in the silent watches of the night 

Doth memory light the lamp of other days, 

Whose lustrous beams restore the past to light, 
And startles with the clearness of its rays ! 

Ah, at such times how well we recollect 

Scenes around which Time's dusky wreath has 
twined ! 

Scenes which the bustle of the day reject, 
And never once intrude upon the mind. 

Childhood in all its beauty re-appears — 
Beauty long since on fleeting pinions fled ; 



100 POEMS, 

Friends, boon companions of our early years, 
Now scattered far, or with the nameless dead. 

I do bethink me of an ancient man 

Whose solemn aspect struck my infant eye ; 

With superstitious reverence did I scan 
His antiquated form that drooped to die. 

And well I recollect the fatal night 

When the old man resigned himself to death ; 
The geese were noisy in their awkward flight 

And Notus* blew with warm and misty breath, 

I was a young and ghost-believing child ; 

And all that awful night I lay awake ; 
My mind was filled with apprehensions wild, 

And ominously did the windows shake ! 

Time's dreamy interval of years cannot 
From off my mind its memory efface, 

Tho' more important things are quite forgot, 
And many truths have sadly gone apace I 

And even now at evening, when I hear 

The storm-foretelling geese fly calling shrill, 

Backwards I see in bas-relief appear 

Distinct the old man and his death-bed still. 



Written in an Album beneath a print representing ' 
a water scene. 

Life 's like a stream whose waters run 
To the deep sea, with changeful flow ; 

Now sparkling in the morning sun, 
Now stealing in the shades below. 

♦Notus — the south wind. 



POEMS. 101 

THE REVIEW. 

'Tis pleasant thro' the loop-hole of retreat 
To peep at such a world. — Shakspeare. 

When in the mood to make a pen 
To let it rest I know not when ; 
So glancing o'er the ways of men 

With ready sight, 
I 've found the present theme, and then 

What's more, must write. 

We '11 take a kind of grand review 
From this to that the country through ; 
What whims we note, without ado 

We '11 write them down, 
Be they in Gentile or in Jeio, 

In lord or clown. 

Condemn not me, ye knowing ones ! 
I 've not seen forty annual suns, 
Nor fifty, and yet he who runs 

Reads if he will — 
Nor is it youth alone that shuns 

To foot your bill. 

E'en now, "by taking thought," I hear 
Your censures and remarks severe ; 
But that is what I never fear — 

And in reply, 
Think me wrong, if you please, but ne'er 
Give me the lie ! 

DUAN FIRST. 

Money 's the nail that first I '11 drive. 
We all need some of it to live, 
But why do mortals vex and strive 
For it alone ? 



102 



POEMS. 



Cheat one another, and connive 

At frauds their own ? 

In vain the sacred man may tell 
Of Mammon, the destroyer fell — 
Mortals can never hearken well 

With ears stopped fast ! 
They '11 crack the nut and find but shell, 
I think, at last. 

E'en in the councils of our nation, 
Where men hold high responsive station, 
And thunder loud in declamation — 

In gold's bright bubble, 
For one, I see the derivation 

Of every trouble. 

And in the private walks of life 
It forms the cause of every strife ; 
It bids assassins draw the knife 

To put life out ; 
It links together man and wife 

Sometimes, no doubt. 

Some persons ye may hear declare : 
"Give me a competency fair, 
And I will cease my worldly care 

And help the poor.'' 
Yet with their thousands then to spare 

They wish for more ! 

If such with me should take offence, 
Altho' of little consequence, 
To gain again their confidence, 

On them I pray 
Heaven send the wished-for competence 
Without delav. 



toems. 103 

We '11 look at something else. One day 
By chance it fell my lot to stray 
To where men go to preach and pray 

Far in the wood ; 
And quite as many take their way 

For aught but good. 

Ye might have heard the clamor loud 
That rose from out that motley crowd, 
And yells to make a Stentor proud, 

Full half a mile ; 
I looked to see the heavens bowed 

At first, awhile ! 

But soon familiar with the sound, 
I cast my wondering eyes around 
And saw a thousand on the ground 

Shout, sing, and weep ; 
Men, women, children, all were found 
In the same heap. 

Then on the other hand, and near, 

Was seen that which to tell of here 

Would doubtless shock the modest ear, 

So let it rest; — 

Tho' there are ears that would not fear 

To bide the test. 

I pondered o'er the scene full long ; 
My cogitations might be wrong, 
But yet the reasons seemed too strong 

To be denied ; 
So taking one from out the throng, 

We spoke aside : — 

My friend, I would inquire of you 
For what you make this great ado'? 



104 POEMS. 

Your object may be good and true — 
I own it so, 

But evil deeds therefrom ensue, 

As well you know. 

Quoth he, "Our object is to raise 
Our voices to our God in praise, 
And from the error of their ways 

Sinners to turn ; 
For this we spend whole nights and days 
To teach and learn/ ? 

But, sir, why seek the open air, 
The nightly dews with shrubs to share, 
Disease and sickness thus to dare — 

Oft in the lurch ? 
Is there not room, and that to spare, 

In barn or church ? 

You make a great parade and noise — 
So do these idle men and boys ; 
You come to talk of heavenly joys — 

They come for fun ; 
And while your part your time employs 

Much else is done, 

Now set the zeal of your elect, 
And all the good you will effect, 
And all the evil you reject, 

Against this play 
Of standers by, and I suspect 

The last would weigh* 

Your camp-scenes form another case 
Akin to that which oft takes place — 
'T is hanging men before the face 

Of multitudes ; 



POEMS. 105 

What serves example in disgrace 

Often breeds feuds ! 

I'll tell you what I once did see : 
A wretch led to the gallows-tree, 
With death-march wailing mournfully — 

A solemn sight. 
And one that shook the nervous knee, 

And bleared the light. 

Thousands of men stood grouped about, 
The halting, feeble, and the stout, 
From perfumed fop to rustic lout, 

All struck with awe ! 
A denser, eager-scrambling rout 

None ever saw. 

Well, 'neath the gallows, frowning tall, 
We saw the wretched culprit fall, 
And struggling die before us all. 

Scarce was he dead, 
When there arose a deadly brawl 

With steel and lead. 

The red blood flowed as whiskey free ; 
There would have been, it seemed to me, 
Another victim for the tree 

In short time more — 
(Altho' the great solemnity 

Was scarcely o'er) — 

Had not some peace-men passing by, 
Drawn to the scene of action nigh, 
Compelled the rioters to fly, 

And quelled the fight. 
And much else that day met my eye 

That was not right. 
9 



106 roEMs. 



Those who by the scene should profit 
Were benefited not a bit, 
Thus warned their evil works to quit , 

But every grade 
From cut-throat down to pick-pocket 

Each plied his trade. 

"Facts, " it is said, "are stubborn things," 
Preferred before the word of kings, 
And my own observation brings 

Such proofs as these ; 
And count them vain imaginings, 

If so you please. 



DUAN SECOND. 

I sing the wisdom of the age, 
The new opinions of the sage ; 
We 'd pine in Ignorance's cage, 

No doubt, without them, 
So I will try to write a page 

Or two about them, 

Who but has heard his father tell 
How in his day things went on well, 
For then the lines of living fell 

In goodly places ; 
Nor did they, as we do, expel 

All inborn graces. 

Tho' much of tippling then was done, 
(Which is apt to breed contention,) 
The wheels of union ever run 

Harmoniously. 
No one rose to make dissention, 
All piously. 



POEMS. 107 

Now Mormon, with his golden plates,* 
Says he has opened heaven's gates, 
And hangs out many tempting baits 

To prove the fact ; 
And old Joe Smith, his agent, prates 

With school-boy tact. 

His flock have gone far to the west 
To seek some promised land of rest, 
Where other sects can ne'er molest, 

Nor day, nor night. 
They '11 never cease on earth their quest, 

If rumor 's right. 

Here in our own, our goodly land, 
Some zealot has enrolled a band, 
Whose object is to take command 

From heaven, I think ! 
The last accounts they seemed to stand 

Upon the brink. 

They hold that while a thing of earth, 
A soul that 's had the "second birth" 
Possesses all exalted worth 

That angels have : 
And truly it excites to mirth 

To hear them rave. 

They think the great and high Supreme 
A being worthy of esteem ! 

♦Every one, it is presumed, is familiar with the history of 
this singular sect; and with their formation from the pretended 
discovery of some golden plates, revealing the book of Mor- 
mon. Headed by their principal leader, Joe Smith, they jour- 
nied to the far west to seek the "New Jerusalem," as they 
termed it. Instead thereof, however, they found fighting and 
bloodshed. 



108 POEMS. 

And then their worthless selves they deem 
As angels holy, 

Alike unknown to guilty shame, 

To sin or folly ! 

That heathenism should be done 
Beneath New-England's christian sun, 
'S a crying shame — a grievous one ; 

And into jail 
The imps should tarred and feathered run, 

Or ride a rail. 

There 's other sects, had I the will 
To write about, enough to fill 
The walls of any paper-mill — 

I '11 only add, 
L — d ever keep them out of G***, 

And we Ml be glad. 

In olden time there was no need 
Of working each misguided deed 
Which some good modern people plead 

Is duty now ; 
And some, no doubt, expect a mede — 

Let duty go. 

But as to that I will not say, 
Tho 5 let us censure as we may 
The righteous truth would ne'er cry nay — 

Of that I 'm sure 
As that some others work away 

With motives pure. 

We at the North saw fit to free 
Our slaves, and give them liberty ; 
And it was done quite peaceably, 

Of our oxen will; 



POEMS. 109 



And sons of Ham with us, we see, 

Are freemen still. 

Did southern statesmen interfere, 
And meddle with our matters here, 
And wring for us the ill-timed tear ? 

Believe it ?— No ! 
They held the bonds of union dear, 

As we should do. 

Have we so much the wiser grown 
We cannot let the South alone ] 
But fight like dogs for some poor bone ? 

Pray let her be ! 
When she sees fit, as we have done, 

Her slaves she '11 free. 

Has she no judgment or volition 
That we should preach her abolition, 
Without regard to coalition ? 

And paper scrawl — 
Men, women, infants, in petition — 

Paupers and all ?* 

Petitioners ! a word or two 
For each and every one of you ! 
Men, does your judgment serve you true, 

Without a bias? 
Most peaceful men I ever knew 

Were truly pious. 

Ladies, I know you would do good 
In every way in which you could, 

*In a town, not a thousand miles distant, not only men and 
women signed a late petition to congress, but infants and town 
paupers ' Is it Dot frequently the case 1 



110 roEMs. 

And in the present case you would, 

But, pardon me ! 

In order thus to do you should 

More quiet be. 

Infants, the holy Scripture says, 
Love and mind your parents always ; 
And if they ever bid you raise 

Your feeble voice 
To sanction what is all a maze, 

You have no choice ! 

Ye self-made sons of poverty, 
I would in turn petition ye : 
Fret not yourselves at slavery 

Till ye are free ! 
Something like inconsistency, 

It seems to me. 

Now, moreover and furthermore— 
We moderns wander terra o'er 
And seek some far-off foreign shore, 

Alms to apply ; 
While in our midst the needy poor 

Beg, starve, and die ! 

We 're growing wiser every year, 
And to what point at last we '11 steer, 
Requires the vision of a seer, 

Not mine, to tell ; 
But may we keep our offing clear 

For aye of h*U. 



POEMS. Ill 



DUAN THIRD. 



We have improvements now in physics, 
In healing broken bones or phthisics, 
In giving ailing men dietics, 

In curing ills 
Of all descriptions with emetics 

Or patent pills. 

If half were true that meets the eye 
For mending our mortality, 
Life's complicate machinery 

Would ne'er decay ; 
But when it came our time to die, 

We 'd blow away ! 

Here we read that "Dr. Blixer 
Prepares and sells the Life Elixer," 
"Cough-drops," "Syrups," "Tonic Mixture," 
Or "Head-ache Snuff;" 
Enough to make the sick man sicker 
To take the stuff. 

Here ^s Dr. Thinkum's patent pills, 
A certain cure for all the ills 
That doctors score upon their bills — 

Tho J ten to one, 
Those whom the trashy physic kills 

Are cured alone. 

'T is custom at the present day 
To preface with a long essay 
Some new-invented quackery. 

So for the hare 
Men put a bait, while 'neath they lay 

The subtle snare. 



112 POEMS. 

Now, JEsculapius, give o'er 
Your books of scientific lore ; 
We need your services no more — 

We '11 heal ourselves ; 
And lay your long and well-filled score 

Upon your shelves. 

For lo ! how often are we told, 
And that with strong assurance bold, 
Diseases sure are manifold, 

And yet they spring 
From impure blood, and here is sold 

What cures that thing ! 

If palsy binds our limbs in chains, 
If fever scorches up our veins, 
Whate'er disease with racking pains 
, This body fills, 
The remedy with us remains — 

A dose of pills ! 

O, love of gain, how strong thou art 
To render obdurate the heart, 
And bid it act that meaner part, 

Base imposition ! 
I would that Justice make thee smart 

With true contrition. 

And now before the theme I close 
A sentence I would just propose 
To execute on all of those 

Who thus offend : — 
Let the quack eat the drugs he shows, 

And, faith, he : 11 end ! 



POEMS. 113 

What puts the housewives in a flutter ? 
Hear how they loudly talk and sputter ! 
What means the hurry-skurry clutter — 
Is it contention ? 
Oh, no! a thing for churning butter — 
A new invention ! 

Inventions now abound withal. 
We class them thus, the great and small ; 
The great, or those that thus we call, 

Are labor-saving ; 
The small are like a pewter ball — 

Not worth the having. 

Of these improvements as they spring, 
My weary muse no doubt would sing, 
But gladly would she rest her wing, 

Tho' flying low ; 
So will I merely snap the string, 

Not bend the bow. 

Ye curious, of designing bent ! 
I ask, can you for us invent 
A something which shall give content ? 

With great delight 
We '11 have it straight to congress sent 
For patent right. 

Something that shall put to rest 
Foes that would our peace molest ? 
Those that society infest 

And discord make f 
Something shall nerve us to the test 

For conscience' sake 1 

Something the wheels of life to oil, 
That they may run without turmoil ; 



114 POEMS. 

And change the friction of our toil 

To honest labor ? 

Forbid the slanderer despoil 

His better neighbor ? 

Something to guide our steps aright 
In this dark world of ours, despite 
The frailty of our mortal sight? 

To shield us strong ? 
And ever render us contrite 

For aught that 5 s wrong ' 

Ye may not do it ; but all praise 
To Him who rules our crooked ways, 
Who did in blessed Israel's days 

His gospel give ! 
And evermore to man it says, 

"Obey, and live !" 

ADDENDA. 

Perhaps 't were not amiss to state 
What has befallen me of late : 
Some folks would cast me in a strait, 

If so they could, 
Because I will not trudge the gait 

They want I should, 

But softly ! sage ones, if you please ! 
I 'm not the one for you to tease ; 
I give your fury to the breeze, 

To moles and bats ; 
Ye may catch rats with toasted cheese — 

Not cheese with rats ! 

Were it not better had we fewer 
Such charitable ones as you are ? 



POEMS. 



115 



I preached a sermon* from the Scripture, 
With proper text ; 

And tho' 't was done with motives pure, 
Ye 're sorely vexed. 

And was it then addressed to you ? 
There is a proverb, old and true, 
That none can feel the pinching shoe 

Save those who wear it ; 
And how it felt ye doubtless knew, 

And could not bear it. 

With you there must be something ill, 
That you should of your own free will 
Administer yourselves the pill — 

May it relieve ye ! 
And all the charges in my bill 

1 free forgive ye ! 

Your epithets I bid you spare ! 
To preach the truth so plain and fair 
I never was before aware 

Was sin so heinous ; 
And now I solemnly declare, 

Lord judge between us. 



*The sermon here alluded to is found on p. 72; being an en- 
largement upon Prov. xx, 3. It was published in the county 
paper, and so incensed certain good people who considered them- 
selves addressed, that they denounced the author as an infi- 
del, unbeliever, c^c. and considered themselves greatly ag- 
grieved. 



116 POEMS. 

A TALE OF OTHER DAYS. 

prelude — extempore. 

Have ye not heard of captain Shays ? 

Sing Io — ioway 
Who figured once in former days ? 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

O, was he not a soldier brave ? 

Sing Io — ioway 
But yet a most consummate knave ? 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

Peace bade our revolution close, 

Sing Io — ioway 
And we were free from foreign foes. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

But Shays, red-reeking from the fight, 

Sing Io — ioway 
Proclaimed aloud all was not right. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

Our war had cost us many fold 

Sing Io — ioway 
Of dollars bright and guineas gold. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

The debt did heavy on us lie, 

Sing Io — ioway 
And so our taxes waxed high. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

So captain Shays got up and cried 

Sing Io — ioway 
Is it for this I 've bled and died ? 

And jang malang-go lay f 

For liberty I Ve 4 awn the blade;, 
Sing Io— *oway 



POEMS. 117 

And now I '11 fight to be obeyed. 
And jang malang-go lay ! 

These heavy taxes shall not be 

Sing Io — ioway 
Imposed on those who '11 follow me. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

And so he roused a warlike band, 

Sing Io — ioway 
And he was honored with command. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

Awhile he marched about and roared, 

Sing Io — ioway 
Till like poor Logic he was floored. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

Now I will tell a story you, 

Sing Io — ioway 
'T is very strange but very true. 

And jang malang-go lay ! 

Now Winter with his frosty breath, 
His icy beard and snowy wreath, 
Had piled his drifts in every nook, 
And locked in fetters every brook — 
When our now old, then infant state, 
Convened her council for debate. 
For captain Shays, and his mad band, 
With boastful threats had filled the land, 
And published loud his wild intent 
To model new her government, 
That Massachusetts then might be 
The home of outlaws such as he. 
Poor man ! his scheme succeeded ill ; 
He felt at last his froward will 
Come home with vengeance on his head — 
10 



118 POEMS. 

His courage failed — his foll'wers fled. 
When this was done, our government 
Throughout the state her sheriffs sent, 
Shays and his officers to take, 
And try them for example's sake. 
By chance it fell one vengeful scout 
Came seeking rebels hereabout. 
On the north line of Gill, (a town 
Since formed, and birth-place of my own.) 
From whence Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con 
Comes winding in its channel on, 
The scene took place which I relate — 
A scene of biood and tragic fate. 

The short-lived winter day was past 
And coldly sped the evening blast. 
A rebel leader from the fight 
That ended in disasterous flight,* 
Had hither sought his peaceful home 
Where fighting yet had never come ; 
And by his evening fireside sat, 
Holding with friends familiar chat, 
When sounds without assailed his ear, 
Like hasty footsteps drawing near. 
Alarmed, too well he knew the cause— 
'T was a stern message from the laws ! 
With gun in hand he quickly fled, 
And thro' the open forest sped ; 
While in his rear the vengeful pack 
Followed like blood-hounds on his track. 
At length a sheriff, drawing nigh, 
Cried out "Surrender, wretch, or die !" 
But, nothing daunted, the Shaysite 
Outstripped the summoner in flight. 



*The skirmish at the arsenal in Springfield, in which the in- 
surgents were worsted. 



poems. ny 

It fanned to flame the sheriff's ire- — 
He aimed his gun — it failed to fire. 
Ye may suppose the rebel's blood 
Was boiling like a raging flood ; 
And when he knew his foe's intent, 
His thoughts on dark revenge were bent. 
The forest echoed to his gun — 
The fell work of revenge was done ! 

The scene is changed to dungeon dark, 
Where felons pine in durance stark ; 
For here our hero next was cast, 
His limbs in iron shackles fast. 
To pay the forfeit of iiis crime 
He waited the appointed time, 
For law had sentenced him to die, 
And the doomed day was drawing nigh. 
At length it came with due parade, 
And men of every rank and grade, 
The high, the low, the rich, the poor, 
The snowy white and blackamoor, 
Anxious and eager, thronged to see 
The death upon the gallows-tree. 
The soldiers, uniformed and bright, 
Their muskets glancing in the light, 
Moved to the death-march slow along, 
With the poor wretch amid the throng. 
They came to where the gallows gloomed, 
And up the ladder went the doomed. 
He stood upon the scaffold high 
And gazed about him mournfully ; 
He felt the fresh and balmy air, 
He saw the earth with blossoms fair, 
(For long and weary months had flown 
Since he was in confinement thrown.) 



120 POEMS. 

- ■ ■ ' ' ■'■ ■ ■ ■■'■■ " •■■■ ■■■ " ' ...... __ 

He felt 't was hard to leave the earth 

When Nature seemed to smile in mirth ; 

Connecticut* that rolled in pride. 

The verdant plains out-spreading wide, 

The birds in every leafy tree 

Chaunting aloud their melody, 

The glorious sun that lit the sky — 

It was — it was too hard to die ! 

He turned and took a last survey 

Of nature in her bright array; 

Then calmly yielded to his fate, 

And silently did death await. 

So while he stood, tradition saith, 

Trembling upon the verge of death, 

A knight attendant did unroll 

And holding up a written scroll, 

In tone of voice, both clear and loud, 

Read to the anxious, listening crowds 

In the high name of this our state — 

As merciful, as just and great — 

Pronouncing pardon, full and free, 

For him whose death they came to see. 

The shivering wretch no sooner heard 

Pronounced that sovereign, welcome word > 

Than down he sunk in heavy swoon — 

And so my simple tale is done. 

And now whoe'er the same shall read, 
A moral, if he choose, may heed : 
Be always sure your cause is right 
Before you undertake to fight ; 
And rather than to risk the hope 
Of pardon, when you feel the rope, 
Attend the scriptural decree 
And own as such the powers tha t be. 

♦This scene took place at the capital of Hampshire, on the 
Connecticut river. 



POEMS. 121 

EPISTLE 

To Rev. Jno. Mitchell, after the publication of his 
celebrated Fast Sermon. — Jer. VI. 16. 

Kind sir, I beg you to excuse 
This bold intrusion of the Muse ! 
Know thou I lately did peruse 

Discourse of thine, 
And on most points, dear sir, your views 

Are strictly mine. 

To see good people running mad, 
Aiming at good, yet doing bad, 
Moved me — I called the evil sad, 

And cried them leave it ! 
So far from that, I would be glad 

If they 'd believe it. 

How sadly have we gone astray 
In this enlightened latter day 
From that well-trod and "good old way" 

Our fathers knew ! 
Cry for reform we truly may — 

We 've reason to. 

Would every erring mother's son 
Could see and read thy good sermon! 
He needs, I think, just such an one 

To set him right. 
Read, and believa it when he's done, 

For well he might. 

I honor, sir, your sentiment, 
Your motives pure and good intent ; 
Comment on them, by one assent, 

Is wholly needless ; 
But true frankness, when apparent, 

Should not be meedless. 
10* 



122 POEMS. 

That there are those both far and near 
Whose better judgment guides them clear 
Of Error's shoals ? where others steer, 
Is past a doubt ; 
And yet to raise their voice they fear 

In warning shout. 

Why should they fear to speak ? I ask. 
Does it impose a heavy task 1 
To drop the figure and the mask 

And show the cause, 
Do they not rather love to bask 

In man's applause? 

Base subterfuge ! it cannot hide 
However well it be applied. 
Let moral courage be denied 

The mind of man, 
And tho' he would with truth abide 

He never can ! 

Would every sacred desk were proud 
Of men with Mitchell's force endowed, 
Who would not fear to speak, tho' loud 

Mad zealots ston n ; 
And bid the great reforming crowd 

Themselves reform ! 

Then might the good old days return ; 
Then might our wise true wisdom learn, 
And o'er disunion dark discern 

The peaceful dawn 
Refulgent, as it once did burn 

In times agone. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Sir, I am loath to trouble you, 
And yet I ask permission to : 



POEMS. 123 

Your sermon is so good and true 

I wish 'twere mine ! 

And I may often read it through 

If gift is thine! 

Gill, Nov. 2, 1837. 



TO A PET LAMB, 

Lamenting the death of its mate. 

Poor little laml ! thy plaintive cry 
Would gather tear-drops in my eye, 
And raise the sympathetic sigh ; 

And for thy grief 
All soothing remedies I '11 try 

For its relief. 

You mourn a little playmate dear, 
And call, its answering bleat to hear ; 
But cold and heavy is its ear — 

Silent for aye ; 
No longer will it gambol near 

To join thy play. 

1 miss the little woolly sheep ! 
I loved to see it frisk and leap, 
And o'er the verdant pasture sweep 

Its sportive round, 
Or in its antics climb the steep 

With airy bound. 

But 't is more I pity thee, lone one, 
To hear thy mournful lamentation ! 
Thy grief seems past alleviation, 

Poor little beast i 
But Time will bring thee palliation, 

In part, at least. 



124 POEMS. 

For thus it is with man, we know. 
He sees his fellow-mortal go, 
Perhaps a boon companion, too — 

And weeps awhile ; 
But when Time's hand has healed the blow 
He learns to smile. 



TO THE "SALT" OF **** 

STROPHE. 

Now "salt is good' 1 — the Bible tells us so, 
And all its saving qualities may know. 
But there is salt that toucheth not our food — 
Preserves as well, is equally as good. 
Without it peer society would rot, 
Peace be a name and order but a blot ! 
He "who in heaven bore the second name" \ 
Knew of this salt, and did address the same > 
When he on earth with blessed errand came. J 
Likewise ye are salt of saving flavor. 
And there is salt that hath "lost its savor"! 
What better purpose can we put it to 
Than "tread it out," and that with iron shoe ? 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Ye who have kept 'midst errors sway 
The "even tenor of your way," 
Nor gone wild-groping and astray ! 

Ye who have heard the frenzied cry 
Of men in zealous agony, 
And meekly raised the prayerful eye ! 

Whose conduct hath reminded me 
Of Publican and Pharisee — 
From all vain-glory ever free ! 



POEMS. 125 

Who love to soothe the bed of pain, 
Whose charity is never vain, 
Who lend not to receive again ! 

Who "search the Scriptures" for reward, 
And lean on Heaven for a guard — 
Receive this tribute of a bard ! 

EPODE. 

And thus he prays : "Time-honored" may you be 
Without dim vision, or the tottering knee ; 
May all your wheels of life move gently on, 
And cease themselves to move, the journey done; 
May conscience never chide you for a fault, 
Nor envy near her venomed head exalt ; 
May all who wish your peaceful comfort mar'd 
From that same comfort find themselves debar'd; 
May all the darkling passions of the breast 
At your indignant glance be put to rest — 
Hatred and malice, every slanderous lie, 
Disunion, discord, and hypocrisy, 
Be banished far as day impels the night, 
And buried low forever from your sight. 
Moreover, I would add yet this reflection — 
In a deep grave, without a resurection ! 



Written extempore on the blank leaf of a Bible, 
on board of a canal boat. 

Fear not to put your trust in God, 

For He alone is just; 
'T is faith removes His vengeful rod 

When "dust returns to dust." 



126 POEMS. 

_ _ . . — — _ 

MASSACHUSETTS. 

"Ense petit placidam quietem sub Libertate.' 5 

Inscribed to his Excellency Edward Everett, Gov- 
ernor of the commonwealth of 3Iassachusetts. 

Forgive this freedom in a rustic bard. 

Thou who art skilful at the helm of state ! 
Relax awhile your weightier regard 

Of learn'd oration and of wise debate, 
And his poor Muse shall never prove ingrate ; 

She who delights to sing her father-land, 
Where Freedom dwells in every breast innate, 

Where Learning's temple doth enduring stand 
And patriots unsheath the vengeance-gleaming 
brand ! 

Hail Massachusetts 1 land of learned lore ; 
Thy pleasant rivers, and thy ocean shore ! 
Thy bosky hills, high towering to the sky ! 
Thy happy homes, with streamlets wandering nigh! 

Hail Massachusetts ! to thy soil I cling ; 
Thy name 1 honor and thy worth 1 sing ! 
Thou art my mother, I thy true-born son — 
Thou ne'er shalt call me an unworthy one ! 

Hail to the time, far back in days of yore, 
When thou didst welcome to thy desert shore 
A band of wanderers who came in quest, 
Worn with oppression, of a place of rest ! 
Feeble in numbers and with prospects drear, 
December frowning at the dying year ; 
The pleasant sun obscured by wintry cloud, 
And nature ghastly in her frigid shroud. 
But they were firm — for tho' in nature's wild 
His eye is ever on his humble child ; 



POEMS. 127 

So with the oft -repeated heaven-ward prayer, 

With hearts to suffer and with souls to dare, 

They made the howling wilderness their home, 

Let good betide them or let evil come. 

Trials ensued at first, and full of wo, 

Such as New-England ne'er again may know ; 

But heaven was pleased to favor them at last, 

Their numbers strengthened and collected fast. 

The Indian, too, poor child of nature ! felt 

His wild heart soften and in pity melt 

To seethe strangers' misery and want, 

And shared with them his pittance poor and scant* 

Shall I digress and tell a mournful tale ? 
Shall I, instead of singing, weep and wail ? 
Alas, that I have cause to ! pardon me, 
My muse loves Justice, stern altho' he be ! 
Shades of the Puritans ! can ye review 
Your lives so faultless, and yet faulty, too, 
And feel no pang akin to fell remorse ? } 

Ah, happy thrice if ye feel nothing worse ! > 
Doth not the Maker of the universe ) 

Account the Indian rational, altho' 
Save fashioning his life-depending bow, 
Or his poor wigwam, yet to him as dear 
As splendid palace to the kingly peer, 
Or light canoe to swim his native flood — 
His arts were lacking? (and these few were rude.) 
Altho' fair Science never deigned to shine 
Upon his path with influence benign — 
Without that revelation from on high, 
To teach him how to live and how to die — 
With nought to guide his erring steps aright 
Thro' Nature's darkness, but her own dim light — 
Yet was he not a man, lord of the soil? 
Whose rights, whose liberty ye did despoil 1 



128 POEMS. 



And did ye ever deem him more or less 

Than savage beast that roamed the wilderness? 

But I forbear to dwell upon the theme — 

I would 5 t were nothing but an idle dream. 

So to my "first love" I '11 return again, 

And let poor Indian to his God complain. 

We '11 overlook an interval of years 
Replete with wars and peace, with hopes and fears, 
And see Oppression stern, with iron hand, 
Casting her shackles o'er a struggling land. 
Wasted and worn beneath their galling weight, 
And nerved to daring at her pending fate, 
That land determined to resist the fiend, 
And for support on righteous heaven leaned. 
Long shall the glorious annals of those days 
Speak volumes to old Massachusetts' praise ! 
Long shall the blood — the first was made to run, 
Cry from the ground at famous Lexington ! 
Long, too, shall Bunker's gore-drenched height re- 
main, 
The altar where in sacrifice was slain 
Full many a son of Massachusetts brave, 
Her dearest rights and life-dear homes to save ! 
Shall not thy memory, ill-starred Warren, 
Live in the hearts of these thy countrymen ? 
Shall not remembrance of those braves who fell 
On that dread mount be ever cherished well ? 
It shall be ever, and with fond regard ; 
It shall inspire the patriotic hard 
To Sing their deathless fame in future time, 
In accents lofty and in strains sublime. 

Like as the flame, tho' small at first awhile. 
Spreads high and wide and wraps the stately pile, 
So on this soil the factions kindled first 
Soon o'er the land in revolution burst. 



roEMs. 129 



Wherever arms were borne against the foe, 
New-England's sons dealt hardest in the blow ; 
Where'er was battle fought or victory won, 
There, too, was marshalled Massachusetts' son. 

But who is there the sleeping dead can raise? 
Who, then, shall paint the perils of those days? 
Ah ! who can paint the sufferings of those 
Who fought 'gainst want and mercenary foes? 
Who shall recount the melancholy tale 
Of tearful orphans, and the widow's wail ? 
Who tell the price that this our freedom bought, 
So full of blessings and so nobly sought ? 
I '11 not impose on my unwilling Muse 
The task she doth so modestly refuse. 

Oh, ever shall their memory be dear 
Who caused this day of glory to appear ! 
Who pledged their lives, their fortunes, honor, all, 
Whose dauntless hearts no dangers could appal. 
Thrice blessed is the memory of the blest — 
Sweet as the dews of heaven be their rest ! 

Hail Massachusetts ! aye the brightest gem 
In Liberty's refulgent diadem ! 
There is a light that bright above thee dwells, 
That decks thy vales and burnishes thy hills ; 
Whose beams afar throughout the world are seen, 
Bright as the sun, and clear as star at e'en. 
It is the light of Knowledge, streaming free 
To every one whose eyes are ope'd to see. 
How doth the glare beam from her ancient halls, 
Where Fame to deep-read Science loudly calls ! 
Whence issuing forth, each with a torch in hand, 
Lit at the shrine of Learning, go a band 
Of thy bright sons, to give their cheering light 
To all whom Ignorance enwraps in night. 
11 



130 POEMS. 

I ween a leader in that brilliant throng 
Is he to whom I dedicate my song ! 

On every side I hear a sound arise — 
'T is that of never-wearied Enterprise. 
Hark ! to the clamor of the forge and mill, 
The whirling waters and the laboring rill; 
The busy factory so full of life, 
In all its thousand wheels with business rife. 
Hark ! to the seaman's glad home-hailing cry, 
So full of vigor and so heartily ! 
Behold his canvass whitening every sea, 
To every wind, to every billow free ! 

There is a voice goes up from all thy streams, 
As sweet as falling water in our dreams ; 
From every sheltered vale ascends that cry ; 
From every forest deep, and mountain high / 
From every home of thine where freemen dwell ; 
In every passing breeze I hear it swell ; 
Solemn it rises from thy sea-washed shore, 
Amid the hoary tide's obstreperous roar ; — 
It is the voice of Liberty I hear 
Forever sounding in my waking ear T 

My dear-loved mother, list th : warm appeal 
Of one who ever glories in thy weal ! 
While thou dost often rear thy warrior son — 
To patriotic deeds incite him on ; 
While thou dost give thy patriot statesmen, too, 
The heart of wisdom, and the will to do — 
Canst thou not also rear the patriot bard, 
Who in thy smile shall find his own reward ? 
Thy noble name shall oft adorn his lays, 
And oft his theme sha 1 ! be thy nobler praise. 

So, in :: ^elusion, Everett , thy health ! 
And Gol °r save our commonwealth ! 



POEMS. 131 

TO THOSE WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 

Written during a time of peculiar excitement. 

Now Sampson when his strength was lost, 

Was filled with sore surprise ; 
He jumped into a bramble bush 

And scratched out both his eyes. 
And wben he saw his eyes were out, 

With all his might and main 
He jumped into another bush, 

And scratched them in again. — Anon. 

I. 

Last night I went, with good intent, 

Where raving men are preaching, 
With this endeavor, as I went — 

To profit by their teaching. 
What with the hubbub and the noise 

That marked the congregation, 
From those outrageous in their joys, 

I viewed the operation. 

II. 

And now recovered from the scene 

Of discord and confusion, 
In BabeVs walls I never mean 

Again to make intrusion. 
I must apologize a word 

For this time going there, 
But I of late had often heard 

Great things were doing there. 

III. 

And so for once I went to make 

Examination full, 
And if it is not, I mistake, 

"Great cry in little wool !" 
I may be wrong, but yet my mind 

I have a right to state ; 



132 POEMS. 

Tho' some at me offence should find, 
It matters nothing great. 

IV. 

Imprimis, then, is it not wrong 

To make a use so free 
Of appellations that belong 

To sovereign Deity ? 
Now ye who take His name in vain, 

Behold with consternation 
Your condemnation written plain, 

Despite infatuation. 

V. 

How can there be solemnity 

Where all is loud commotion ? 
How can we worship Deity 

Where there is not devotion ? 
And how can persons feel devout 

Where every one is talking 
And breaking forth in noisy shout, 

And vile transgressors mocking ? 

VI. 

I give you credit for one thing, 

And that is wily cunning ; 
Ye well know how to coax and sing, 

And keep your tongues a running. 
It calls the simple-minded out, 

And works upon their feeling, 
And e'er they know what they ; re about 

Ye have them all a kneeling. 

VII. 

And well ye know how to invade 

Society's weak border, 
And never stop till ye have made 

Confusion of good order. 



POEMS. 133 

And well ye know how to pretend 

Disinterested motives ; 
And then for recompense ye '11 lend, 

Perhaps, some heartless votives. 
VIII. 
But O, ye rulers ! have ye read 

Of ih'.jlity Adonijah ?* 
Or of the holy raven-fed, 

The Heaven-inspired Elijah ? 
How was the Power Supreme revealed! 

To his prophetic ken ? 
The emblem shall not be concealed, 

Ye shouting sons of men ! 
IX. 
For lo ! a whirlwind rushed amain 

With mighty force to shake ; 
The solid hills were rent in twain, 

And rocks in pieces brake. 
After the wind a wonder new, 

And earth was shaken sore ; 
Convulsions ran her bowels through, 

And heaved in wild uproar. 
X. 
Anon a wonder stranger still 

Rose to the prophet's ga^e — 
The earth, as if by Sovereign will, 

Seemed in a general blaze ! 
But no ! the Sovereign Power was 

In rone of them displayed, 
Whatever else might be the cause 

That all the havoc made. 
XL 
When nature's tumult and discord^ 

And boisterous din were past. 



*See I. Kings, 1st chaj er. | fl. Kings, 19th chapter. 
II* 



134 POEMS. 

Behold ! a still small voice was heard 

Forthcoming at the last. 
Whereat the prophet, when he heard. 

Concealed in fear his face, 
For then he knew the sovereign Lord 

Was present in that place. 

XII. 

Now ye who rant, and rave, ?.nd storm, 

Must practise merely art ; 
The passions ye may reach and warm, 

But may not reach the heart. 
It is the still small voice that speaks 

Within the human breast, 
And he who lists its whispers seeks 

The soul's eternal rest. 

XIII. 

And whereas ye are wont to meet 

With forest oaks and birches, 
As if there were no vacant seat 

In barns if not in churches— 
And whereas to the idle crowd, 

Before they have deserted, 
Ye tell with proclamation loud 

How many are converted — 

XIV. 

This is to hint, in cautious way, 

Perhaps ye are misguided ; 
And, may be, some of you display 

Yourselves to be derided. 
But rest the evil consequence 

Attendant on deriders — 
How many converts, six months hence, 

Ye '11 number as back liders ! 



POEMS. 135 

XV. 

Moreover, as your meetings are 

ilready long protracted — 
(The fruit whereof shall time declare, 

Be good or bad enacted) — 
And as last evening. I am sure, 

Your minister desiied 
They might continue and endure 

Till sun and moon are tired* — 

XVI. 

This is to say, I wish ye may 

Effect much good thereby, 
As lasting as the fount of day 

That pours from yonder sky. 
And, also, I would ask of you 

Some charity for me, 
Because I "give the de'il his due/' 

The more especially. 

XVII. 

Now, in conclusion, let me add, 

I've charity also ; 
But that the half of you are mad, 

I verily do n't know. 
However, He alone who made 

Can judge the secret heart; 
And far from me be ever laid 

That eonsea x uential part. 

XVIII. 

Think not that I forget the few 

Whose conscience needs no clearing ; 

But even let me hint to you, 
God is not hard of hearing. 

Sincerity religion salts, 

And makes it prepossessing ; 

*A fact. 



136 POEMS. 



It hides a multitude of faults, 
And often "gets the blessing." 

XIX. 

This much is certain, all agree 

We 've need of discipline ; 
And howe'er some may censure me, 

1 5 ve aimed at good herein. 
Brethren, since in my hasty talk 

I ; ve aimed at nothing ill, 
In unity we '11 try to walk, 

And part in right good will ! 



ON THE FALL OF A MIGHTY OAK. 

Written while sitting uvon the trunk thereof, Nov, 
15^ 1837. 

Ye sylvan gods and wood-nymphs mourn 

The monarch of your shade ! 
The oldest of your stately oaks 

Is low forever laid. 

Ye little songsters of the grove, 

Attune a plaintive strain, 
For never to his sheltering arms 

He '11 welcome you again. 

Ye little squirrels, blithe and gay, 

Forever full of glee, 
Forget awhile your carelessness 

And mourn your native tree. 

Ye whispering winds that loved to fill 

These airy branches high, 
Go sadly seek some lonely tree, 

And breathe the mournful sigh. 



POEMS. 137 

Mourn, absent Spring, for thy return 

Shall mortify thy pride ; 
Hadst never thou deserted here 

This oak would not have died ! 

Mourn, Summer gone, and when again 

Thy steps revisit here, 
Let not thy cloud-dim'd eye forget 

The tribute of a tear. 

Mourn, Autumn, for in these old boughs, 

Tho' sere with frost and blast, 
Thy foliage would fain remain, 

And linger to the last.* 

Howl, Winter ! for these hoary limbs, 

Some cold and sleety i?ight, 
You might have taken pride to deck 

With frost-work clear and bright. 

My Muse laments for thee, old oak, 

As for an ancient friend; 
For o'er my infant head thy arms 

Did venerably bend. 

But ah ! how true that solemn thought 

That all things here decay ! 
Not only nature's works shall fail, 

But I mus pass away. 

O, man, how vain unthinking thou ! 

Content to pass along, 
Till Death shall beckon thee to come 

And join his pallid throng. 

How often in thy walks abroad 

Thou mayest a lesson learn, 
With which improved thou 'It willing go, 

Nor wish to make return ! 

♦The White Oak renins its leaves longer thau most trees in 
the New-England forests. 



138 POEMS. 



AURORA BOREALIS. 

Can one behold the Northern Light, 
And feel no wonder at the sight? 
Its meteor columns flashing bright, 

Nor ask the cause ? 
Nor feel instinctively the might 

Of Nature's laws? 

In savage wilds, where I have strayed, 
At night beside the watch-fire laid, 
Wrap'd in my blanket, I 've surveyed 

The sky sublime, 
And seen 'midst stellar lights displayed 

Arcturus climb. 

Marking the constellations rise, 
That oft attract my roaming eyes 
When traversing the spangled skies, 

I 've pondered o'er 
The strange and wild imageries 

Of heathen lore. 

The Milky Way, that wondrous girth 
That seems afar to compass earth ; 
Or from the chambers of the North, 

Where Science tires, 
Seen issuing high and flashing forth 

Those meteor fires. 

Imagination, busy, fed 
Upon the scene, and fancied 
Some mighty hosts to battle led 

Among the stars — 
Of warlike spirits banished 

From earthly wars. 

Those mystic lights were signals she \vn 
To guide the hosts to battle on, 



POEMS. 139 

In fields to mortal ken unknown, 

Beyond that bourn 

Which mortals pass, but never one 

Has made return. 

Then Fancy with her magic spell 
Has ope'd my ears to listen well 
The martial sounds that seemed to swell 

Among the spheres, 
As solemn as the funeral knell 

Of nameless years. 

0, what a field where thoaght may stray, 
The starry skies at eve display ! 
Whose garniture shall ne'er decay 

While time shall last, 
While sombre eve with brilliant day 

Shall well contrast. 



Written in a skiff, on Connecticut river, at the 
"Narrows" a short distance above Tur- 
ner's Falls. 
Connecticut, the stream that flows 

Beneath my feet ! 
What country owns, what mortal knows 
A stream so sweet ! 

Forever varying is thy shore — 

The hill, the plain ; 
Here sleeps thy wave, there torrents roar 

And dash amain. 

Here winds the flood around a cliff 

Whose rocky brow, 
Frowning upon my dancing skiff, 

Inspires me now. 



140 POEMS. 

Here was the Indian wont to take 

The sly raccoon, 
And came to see the otter wake 

Beneath the moon. 

Otters, perhaps, here linger still ; 

But the red-man, 
Search for him wheresoe'er you will, 

Find him who can ! 

Thou stream forever hurrying fast, 

Untiringly ! 
I turn to ask of thee the past, 

Inquiringly. 

What tragic scenes have stained vour shores^ 

All bloodily, 
From where wild Ammonoosuc roars, 

To the salt sea ! 

What tears have mingled with thy flood — 

Of deepest wo ! 
What gory streams of reeking blood 

Have tinged thy flow ! 

Hast thou not chronicled them all, 

To our remorse ? 
Methinks I hear from yonder fall 

The answer hoarse. 



EPITAPH 

For a lady famed for her virtues. 

We ask no tears from sympathetic eyes—- 

To grieve for one who cannot grieve is wrong ; 

But mixed with gratitude be your surprise, 
An angel deigned to dwell on earth so long. 



POEMS. 141 



ON VIEWING A RUINED HABITATION. 

Why should'st thou build thy hall, son of the winged days 1 
Thou lookest from the towers to-day, yet a few years and the 
blast of the desert comes ; it howls in the empty court, and whis- 
tles around the half-worn shield. — Ossian. 

Life's golden sands, how fast they haste 

To run, with ceaseless fall, to waste! 

Man's hopes upon this life are placed, 

Perhaps, to-day; 

To-morrow Death has cold embraced 

His lifeless clay. 

He builds his hall in hope — alas! 
Its portals he must shortly pass, 
Borne out a dead, unknowing mass, 
In earth to rot. 
He reads his "days are as the grass," 
But heeds it not. 

E'en he, who in yon ruin views 
Themes for his moralizing muse, 
Forgets that Time his foresight strews 

With darkness dim, 
And that a silent hall ensues 

One day for him ! 



A DIRGE 

Sung to Autumn on the last day of November. 

Sad Autumn, adieu! over prostrate November, 
Thy snow-shroud descending deep mantles thee 
o'er, 
And o'er thy pale relics looks wintry December, 
With barrenness dreary, with icicle^ hoar, 
12 



142 poems. 

— ■ " ■ 

Oh! cold lies the snow on the plain and the moun- 
tain. 

And fettered in chains is the sweet-winding rill ; 
Deserted the valley, and frozen the fountain, 

And thro' the lone forest the blast whistles shrill. 

'T was but late that I roved by the side of the 
streamlet, 

And listened delighted the chime of its flow ; 
Or sought far remote from the stir of the hamlet, 

The mountain above, or the valley below. 

For Nature's full cup was o'erfi owing in gladness, 
And sweet was the song of the bird of the bough, 

So pleasingly plaintive, inclining to sadness ; 
And soft was the lock-lifting breeze to my brow. 

But now while those days of enchantment review- 
ing, 

(For in my mind's eye they forever appear,) 
I shrink at the prospect before me ensuing— 

For oh, of myself what a symbol is here ! 

'T is not for thee, Autumn, I make lamentation, 
For time shall renew all thy charms to thee yet; 

But oh, for myself! — 'tis a sad contemplation — 
In Death's dreary winter my autumn must set! 

Yet when the chill blasts of misfortune have left me 
And cold frosts of life that embittered my joy ; 

When death with his unsparing hand has bereft me 
Of trifles that please and of pleasures that cloy — 

Still sweet be the thought that thou, Autumn, shalt 

mourn me, 

And yearly thy pilgrimage pay to my grave ; 

While all the sad weeds that enwrap and adorn 

thee 

Shall o'er my low pillow slow, solemnly wave 



POEMS. 143 

TO HYPOCHONDRIA. 

Dimly seen in prospective. 

Black fiend from source infernal! thou 
Before whose frown full many bow 

Despondent and forlorn; 
Why comest thou to me, I ask, 
Dark scowling through thy hellish mask ? 

Thou imp of Belial born! 
At thy approach how dark the world, 
Tho' thousand suns should blaze! 
The past in dire confusion whirled — 
The future all a maze! 

And how dark is the mark 

To which we mortals steer! 
Yea, the grave, where we crave 
Forgetfulness sincere. 

11. 

Thou devil of the brimstone lake, 
What fiendish pleasure thou must take 

In harrowing the mind! 
In rending it with unborn wo, 
Or bid it wayward roaming go 

Some fancied ill to find. 
Thou art as inconsistent, too, 

As sickrman's dream at night, 
Whom night-mare scares with horrors new, 
And nameless shapes affright. 

Hence, thou fiend! I am weaned 

For evermore from thee. 
Some thou 'It scare, but I swear 
Thou ne'er shalt frighten me ! 



144 POEMS, 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY. 

November, 1837. 
As misty Notus whirls the steeple vane. 
And Falls' hoarse roar foretells the coming rain,* 
I leave the field in which no longer now 
There 's need to follow on behind the plough, 
And to improve the moments as they go 
I '11 make attempt, howe'er I fail to do. — 

I 've often pondered o'er, of late, 
The noble bearing of our state b 
And of her wide-spread fame; 
I know the causes which conspire 
To this effect, but would inquire 
What^rs^ gave her a name? 
In other words, what is the spring 
From whence these causes rise ? 
Her lore that makes our ears to ring— 
Her light that fills our eyes, 
To laud it with plaudit 

Is superfluity, 
Tho' you know to do so 
Is but congruity. 

From whence is all that patriot fire, 
Inherent both in son and sire, 

Of which we well may boast? 
Why, Independence, dost thou stand 
Among the yeomen of our land, 

A barrier to our coast? 
And why is Enterprise so free 

To make our arts increase? 
And why doth thrifty Industry 

Obtain the golden fleece? 

*It is an unfailing sign of an approaching storm when the roar 
of Turner's Falls can be distinctly heard at the village of Gill- 
distant 3 miles. 



POEMS. 145 

Why we stray where we may, 

O'er habitable space, 
We meet with and greet with 

Some of New-England's race ? 

Altho' these queries are my own, 
I, too, on answering am prone — 

So list and I will do it; 
And if I do not answer right, 
And show the reason, clear as light, 

Then call me not a poet : 
What makes the man in after years? 

The babe that cannot walk. 
What weans his heart from childish fears? 
His mother's cradle-talk. 

Thus we get in the debt 
Of mothers, unawares, 
'T is high time in my rhyme 
To reckon our arrears. 

Hail mothers of my ancient state ! 
Your fortunes I congratulate, 

Your favored lot I bless ! 
Not even Sparta's famous dames 
Better deserved their lofty names, 
Than ye who 're famed the less. 
"Honor to whom the same is due," 

Is maxim sage and hoary — 
And I ascribe the source to you 
Of Massachusetts' glory. 

So take ye and make ye 

The most of this my praise ; 
Tho' feeble, unable 

My muse in wreathing bays. 

It stands the daughters, too, in hand — 

Those gems that ornament our land — 

12* 



146 POEMS. 



To play the wiser game; 
And when their mothers leave the stage. 
Clad in the weeds of honored age, 

Perpetuate their fame. 
But, Oh! is there not cause to fear 

Some are degenerating? 
Would such could see their error clear 
And set to deprecating; 

Right long, too, and strong, too, 

And Fashion's yoke reject! 
5 T is wholly in folly 
To bear it, I suspect. 

To amputate my limping letter; 

Your servant owns himself your debtor 

For an epistle recent; 
And could he oftener receive 
The like, I verily believe 

He might reply more frequent. 
Concerning a reply in verse — 

(As lately you did crave it) — 
Review this till you can rehearse, 
And, faith, you '11 see you have it! 
So farewell — you share well,' 

While breath life's flame is fanning, 
In the care and the prayer 
Of ever-mindful Canning. 



ON A CERTAIN INVETERATE PRATER. 

Nonsense, when thou dost speak, is fed, 
But Common Sense stands mocking; 

Our earnest hope for thee when dead 
Is that you '11 rest your talking. 



POEMS. 147 

SECOND EPISTLE TO JNO. FRISSELL, M. D. 

Friday eve. Dec. 

Friend, heard you not my northern whistle 
Shrill blowing in my last epistle? 
With patience e'en that Job might learn 
1 5 ve listened long for a return. 
As none I hear, I send this spy 
To learn the wherefore and the wliy. 
Oh! may it find you hale and well, 
With face to heaven and back to hell; 
Dewce* in hand, with thoughtful face 
Deep cogitating on a case. 

Were I to think for theme to write, 
I scarce should pen a line to-night. 
First thoughts, 't is said, are aye the best — 
So here 's a few — de'il take the rest : 

Mankind are prone, in every earthly clime, 
To wink at selfishness as not a crime; 
But I, for one, can never view it so — 
Your selfish man is oft a villain, too. 
E'en the most selfish, covetous of pelf, 
Despise the man who cares but for himself, 
And yet, for reasons to themselves best known, 
Call not the odious villainy their own! 

I have my eye upon a certain man 
Whose life is but one self-exalting plan. 
Mammon 's the God he reverences most; 
His souFs solicitude 's a dollar lost; 
Night he consumes in cogitating schemes, 
And day-light finds him practising his dreams; 
Whatever game be his in life to play, 
He 's sure to win some one or other way ; 
And if the potent ace he never steals, 
He turns a Jack for trumps whene'er he deals. 

•A medical writer on Midwifery. 



148 POEMS. 

He casts about him with a selfish eye, 

Wrapped in the cloak of self-sufficiency, 

Much with the air, (and you will pardon me 

For making use of homely simile,) 

Of my old dog, who, 'midst his other tricks, 

Turns round and round upon his bed of sticks, 

Until, contracted to a narrow heap, 

He curls him down, and straightway is asleep, 

But, sir, so thinks your humble poet: 
If selfish persons would but know it, 
Death will o'erreach them in the end- 
That gaunt monopolizing fiend! 
That my name, too, may swell the list 
Of those who at the most exist, 
May pass for possibility — 
I say it with humility ; 
But I 'm deceived, if nothing worse, 
If one 's not tacking off that course. 
My chief delight is in a farm, 
With all appliances to charm; 
I covet not a nabob's wealth, 
But give me competence and health; 
"Peace like a river" o'er me roll; 
And hopes of heaven fill my soul; 
A faithful friend ; an open foe; 
And moccasins in time of snow. 

Is there a critic who would smile? 
Let him forbear a little while : 
"Man wants but little here below, 5> 
And many make that little do; 
But more than all, his lot is blest 
Who gets contentment with the rest. 

And now, farewell, my valued friend! 
Till life's great caravan shall end, 



POEMS. 149 

Or rather till I leave the ranks, 
Slumbrous with toil and madmen's pranks; 
Till tomb-stone rises at my head, 
To mark the muse-beloved dead; 
Yea, while I blow the rural reed, 
I hail your friend, and that indeed. 



ON A CERTAIN LAWYER. 

When thou in h — 1 shalt take thy place, 
(For there thou 'It doubtless get,) 

Wo to thee shouldst thou plead thy case! 
You never gained one yet. 

HIS EPITAPH. 

No client more, with golden fleece, 

To fumble o'er and shave, 
Here lies a Justice of the Peace 

And a confounded knave. 



The character of a certain mis chief -making per- 
son given in short, 

O, painted sepulchre ! thou art 

A paragon of evil — 
Canst act a very sainted part, 

And yet delight the d — I. 

his epitaph. 
Come, lesser hypocrites, draw near; 

In sackcloth-mood behave! 
And if ye cannot wring a tear, 

Why, spit upon this grave! 
For of all scoundrels out of h — 1 
This one, while living, bore the bell. 



150 POEMS. 

DESPONDENCY 

Over blighted hopes and wintry prospects. 

There comes a voice that awakes my soul. It is the voice of 
years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds. — 

OSSlAtfc 

Lo ! yon declining winter sun. 
Slow sinking from his labors done! 
Far to the south he goes to rest 
Below the verge-line of the west. 
The hollow moaning of the blast 5 
The shades of evening deep'ning fast, 
The exit of departing day, 
Blend with my thoughts in grim array! 
I see with retrospective eyes 
A nameless mass of forms arise:— 
The forms of long-departed years; 
Of promised hopes and real fears; 
Of mercies from a source on high ; 
Of friends were early called to die; 
Of struggles with a stubborn heart, 
Loath from its own self-will to part; 
Of sorrows in their keenest form; 
Of Fortune's wiles, and Folly's storm; 
Of time mis-spent; of actions done, 
Which Wisdom ever bade me shun; 
Of frowns from His all-seeing eye 
Who dwells in vast eternity — 
Frowns, I may fear, deserved too well; 
Of sounds from Fancy's whispering shell, 
Which only sons of song may hear, 
Soft, yet distinct — unseen, yet near. 
But for the music of these last, 
Mine eyes would sicken on the past ! 

Life, thou art like a pictured map 
To school-boys, fostered in the lap 



POEMS. 151 

Of Inexperience, who pore 

With smiles its painted surface o'er. 

In after years, to manhood grown, 

They find that map a wildering one, 

And while i f s brilliant colors fade, 

See inequality and shade. 

To me, thus far, thou 'rt but a song — 

A poem, full of figures strong; 

Some sweet as flowers in pleasant spring, 

Others as stern as Death, grim king! 

Long since I ? ve given up the chase 
For happiness — it flies apace, 
And when I 'd think to grasp the prize, 
'T was a poor phantom in my eyes! 
I 've summoned Hope to my relief, 
And fondly cherished the belief 
That Fortune would succeed my plans, 
And no more harrass with her bans. 

But human foresight, ah, how frail! 
How oft our brightest prospects fail! 
How oft the darling hope of years 
Ends in a bitter flood of tears! 
How oft the heart leaps with success, 
To sink anon in heaviness! 
False, fabled Hope! how oft we find 
Thou 'rt but a phantom of the mind! 
Or like to foot-prints in the snow, 
That vanish in the sun, we know; 
Or like the lightning's crinkling cham 5 
That dazzles, and is gone again; 
Or like a meteor's transient gleam; 
Or like the waking of a dream. 

Why thus despond — why thus repine? 
What grievous ills that are not mine 



152 POEMS, 

Poor dwellers on this earth may feel ! 
My heart is sick — my senses reel! 
My own woes, heavy tho' they are, } 

Fall on his head who well can bear; > 

And of whose strength has heav'n the care. ) 
Tho' o'er his mind, in some dark hour, 
They rush with ten-fold weight and power, 
Like waters from a pent up stream, 
Like busy morn on flowery dream, 
And cause him for the while to wear 
A saddened look and solemn air— 
'T is like the tumult of a crowd, 
Or like the passing of a cloud. 

Ye nymphs of song, ye came to me 
First in the tear of memory ! 
Never a bard of humble worth 
But ill-star glimmered at his birth; 
But Sorrow marked him from the hour 
When first she found him in her power. 
Yet to the sorrow-stricken bard 
Imagination brings reward: 
He sees, 'mid elements at war, 
The god of thunder on his car; 
Among the volumed clouds he finds 
The hollow caverns of the winds: 
He sees in Nature's varied face 
A winning air, a mystic grace ; 
From every lost and lonely stream 
He gathers thought, indicts a theme; 
In every solemn wind he hears 
The anthem of departed years; 
He hears sweet minstrel voices sing 
Beside the ever-bubbling spring- 
Voices that speak behind that screen 
Hides things eternal and unseen. 



POEMS. 153 

Telling there is a better clime 

Beyond the tear-dimmed shores of time. 

Then world, oh, stormy world, farewell! 
If long in thee I yet may dwell, 
A target for thy missiles sharp, 
Hear this wild raving of my harp! — 
Your selfishness is past dispute; 
Your friendship cold, your pity mute; 
Your cares a dark revolving maze; 
Your frowns a cold unmeaning gaze. 
I 5 ve drank your wormwood and your gall — 
What else hast thou beside the pall? 
Steeled is my heart to every ill, 
At every surge of terror still. 
Then roll your wildest, maddest wave! } 
Its roar I mock, the shock I brave. — \ 

How calm the stillness of the grave! ) 

Then world, oh, posting world, adieu! 
If short my dwelling be with you, 
Think not I leave you with regret — 
No prisoner sick of freedom yet. 
Death, I have seen thy pallid face, 
Thou terror of a mortal race, 

Contemplating my own; 
I knew not what thou willed to do, 
And cared as little as I knew; 

Nor joyed to see thee gone! 
Come when thou wilt, I trust thou 'It find 

A welcomer in me; 
Give freedom to the shackled mind, 

The prisoned soul set free. 

Oh, life! to some much loved and deai^ 
To me a howling waste and drear, 
A labyrinth of care! 
13 



154 POEMS. 

Forward I look, with anxious eye, 
When I shall cast thee off and die, 

And death's dark billows dare. 
To him whose hope shall not betray, 

Death brings a sweet repose; 
He smiles to see thy weary day 

Converging to a close. 



FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY ! 

Written in prospect of an immediate departure. 

Scenes of my childhood, loved and dear, 

Fond images of memory! 
Sweet in the greenly budding year, 

Joyous in vernal melody. 
Fate, iron-hearted, bids me fly — 

Who at his mandate can rebel? 
With swelling heart and tearful eye 

I pause to take a sad farewell! 

Your floods, Connecticut, adieu! 

Your torrent's solemn ceaseless roar; 
What honied moments I review 

Along your winding, woody shore ! 
How oft beneath umbrageous elm 

I 've laid my weary limbs to rest, 
And seen the verge of fairy realm 

Mirrored within thy trembling breast! 

Farewell, sweet ever-flowing brook, 
From winter's frigid fetters clear; 

I give thee now a parting look, 
I lend a tributary tear, 

Tell to the fleeting years that go 3 

To change thee not, nor do thee wrong*. 



POEMS. 155 

Tell him that muses on thy flow 

Of him who christened thee in song. 

Farewell, dear hamlet of my own, 

Endeared by every tender tie; 
Oft shall I think of thee as gone 

When lengthened leagues between us lie. 
Farewell the social hearth, where love 

Lit up his fire and fanned the same — 
Love strong as faith that can remove,* 

Warm as the crepitating flame. 

With beating heart, farewell my friends! 

As such we hailed, as such we part; 
In death all recognition ends, 

Till then my hand — yea, more, my heart ; 
Farewell my foes, if such there be, 

(For I myself am foe to none ;) 
If any would have injured me, 

They 5 ve failed in what they would have done. 

Sweet valley of my birth, adieu! 

The cradle of my russet muse; 
Shall thy own bard, departing now, 

The tribute of respect refuse? 
As soon might Pliaibus yield to ni^ht 

When glowing high at Summers noon! 
As soon his brilliant blaze of light 

Eclipse the pale-faced midnight moon! 

These weary feet of mine have strayed 

Before from thee a mighty way; 
With Fortune's flying foot-ball played— 

Myself in stranger lands astray. 
I wist not whither I was led, 

My life as changeful as a dream; 



♦Matthew XXI chap. 21st verse. 



156 POEMS. 

Now blanket-clad and venison-fed. 
My drink the Indian-haunted stream. 

Anon my home a crowded street, 

Tamed to a city's dust and noise, 
Where soul is lost in self-conceit. 

And pride the nobler man destroys. 
And, oh, thy wandering bard has seen 

Sights which might gladden one to see! 
But wheresoever he has been, 

Fain would he dwell, dear vale, in thee. 

Give to the son of nature wild 

The romance of the mighty west; 
Give to the fop— the name of child; 

Give sumptuous viands to the guest; 
Give to the brave, adventurous tar 

The boisterous music of the sea—. 
But shine for once, propitious star, 

And give my valley-home to me! 

Scenes of my childhood, loved and dear* 

Fond images of memory! 
Sweet glimmering thro 5 a parting tear, 

Enchanting now with melody; 
Fate, iron-hearted, bids me fly — 

With stern resolve I nerve my mind; 
There is a Power that casts the die, 

And to that power I 'm resigned. 



A CHARITABLE EPITAPH. 

Weep not for him whose bones lie here; 

For if the book be true, 
Himself is having now, we fear, 

Enough of that to do. 



POEMS. 157 

EPISTLE TO SWAN, 

Musical composer, and author of an admirable old 

piece called China. 

My unknown, much-respected friend, 

Pray pardon this aggression; 
'T is from beginning to the end 

But simply a confession. 
The Muse is somewhat hard to please, 

And little prone to flatter, 
But when true excellence she sees, 

It alters much the matter. 

Know then I have an open ear, 

(Be'ng also second-sighted ;) 
And when rich melody I hear, 

My very soul 5 s delighted. 
When Spring her flowery mantle shows 

I list the feathered choir; 
When Eolus to Autumn blows 

I hear an unseen lyre. 

The music of the human voice 

Has many charms for me 
When some sweet anthem of my choice 

Trills forth in melody. 
There is a sweet pathetic air 

Whose smoothly gliding numbers 
Give calm forgetfulness to care, 

And to the sleepless slumbers. 

In ancient China's plaintive notes 

What melting music blends! 
Aloft the airy tenor floats. 

The solemn bass descends. 
The man who undelighted hears 

Its well-chimed accents roll, 
13* 



158 POEMS. 

Must have a bubble in his ears — 
No music in his soul. 

Sir, I protest against the sage 

Refinements of the day, 
For aught that bears the stamp of age 

Is thrust in scorn away. 
But list, my friend, a minim rest ! 

This day 1 5 m bold to say — 
Mark Folly with a glossy crest, 

But Wisdom's head is gray. 

Would some kind Power might hear our 
prayers — 

Again old measures bring, 
And give us back the ancient airs 

Our fathers used to sing! 
Curs'd be the discord-working pen 

Struck China from the list! 
Strange! that among the sons of men 

Such goose-quills should exist. 

How oft the zephyrs of applause 

Waft bubbles to the skies, 
When, from some ill-accounted cause, 

True worth unlifted lies ! 
But what I more would say to you 

Will do in vulgar prose; 
So with a sentiment or two 

My hasty verse will close. 

Art thou a son of harmony? 

And am I not another? 
Then give the welcome hand to me. 

My elder minstrel brother! 
The river that between us rolls 

Has not the power to sever 



POEMS. 



The unison of kindred souls, 
And let us part it never! 



FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
###### 
Such scenes as these, New-England, are thy 
own. 
And, oh! perhaps some wandering son of thine 
Whose bark upon life's troubled sea is borne 
Far from the haven of his native home, 
Will oft in meditation's lonely hours 
Revert to thy blue hills and valleys green, 
Thy cool springs bubbling from the flinty rock, 
Thy mellow Autumn waning calmly on, 
Clad in its "coat of many colors" fine; 
And when December comes wrapp'd in his snows, 
Stormy and cold, and white with frosty breath — 
Thy fire-side tales, repeated oft, perhaps, 
But spiced with better flavor for their age; 
Thy dear-loved homes and good old customs dear. 
And memory backward points to other days 
When from his father's roof he early went. 
With benedictions on his youthful head, 
And Hope's bright gossamers before his eyes. 
But now how changed the "spirit of his dream",! 
Sweet days of childhood, ah, how quickly flown! 
How silently! Where now those promised joys? 
Those tfiantom dreams of manhood's happiness ? 
Those budding hopes ? Gone with the lapse of 

years! 
As when the laborer on his pallet rests, 
In strange chimeras fades his absent mind, 
And morning breaks with stern reality 
The visions of the night — so have they gone ! 



160 POEMS. 

Then Fancy fondly beckons from afar 
And bids him dream of brighter days to come, 
When Fortune once on him shall deign to smile 
And bid him welcome to his long-lost home. 
Shall then that wished-for welcome never come? 
(Future as hope — ah, would 't were half as sure!) 



LETTER TO THE EDITORS OF THE OLD COUNTY 
PAPER. 

Messrs. Editors : — 

With blushes deep, and great chagrin 
I ope'd your sheet and found therein 
Myself addressed by some incog., 
Without a text, or e'en prologue. 
I 'd give a cent to know his name 
Who puts me thus to open shame ; 
But as that thing is all a Riddle, 
I may as well "hang up my fiddle." 
Whoe'er he is he seems to be 
In something of a quandary ; 
And so of course it doth devolve 
On me his mighty doubt to solve. 
I '11 try, but always deem it vain 
To teach what of itself is plain : — 

Consistency I ever shall admire 
Be it observed in youth or hoary sire, 
But you, most powerful, severe unknown — 
(And I must judge from what you 've lateLAdone,) 
Wear not that "precious jewel" in your head. 
Or else your memory is dull and dead. 
The man who lacks the one is but a whelp 
Of Madness blind, but none there are can help 
The loss of memory or its decline. 
Which of these evils, unknown one, are thine 



POEMS. 161 

I will not say, — but one of them you have — 
Do I address a dotard or a knave ? 
Review the piece to which you have referr'd 
And see, yourself, how strangely you have err'd. 
Doth that man meddle who consumes his days 
In teaching men the "error of their ways ?" 
Doth that man meddle who when feuds increase, 
Lends his endeavors to inculcate peace ? 
And doth he meddle who would warn the blind 
Who truly meddle where they may not find ? 
Consistency, "the jewel," answers, No! 
But you who lack it may not view it so. 
Have I "condemn'd learn'd, pious ladies all ?" 
As you 've asserted in your venom' d scrawl ; 
Have I deny J d that they have souls to save ? 
Hold, man ! I cry you — verily you rave ! 

As for your weighty questions I allow 
They 're worth an answer — so you have it now : 
First then, I have a "mother, wise and good," 
Altho' she keeps at home, nor gads abroad ; 
I have no wife, nor ever shall have one 
Who cannot let our state affairs alone ; 
I have no sister, Heav'n was never pleased 
To grant that solace to my "mind diseased": 
I am no Southern despot, fiercely bold — 
I always hail from Massachusetts old ; 
Neither do I step forth in sovereign might — 
To tread His image — be it black cr white ; 
No ! far from that ! I ever love to see 
Brethren unite and dwell in unity ; 
"Look round me !" Well, few of the human race 1 
Love more than I a lady in her place, > 

Or more respect her modesty and grace. J 

And now before I leave the land, 
Obedient to vour hi^h command. 



162 POEMS. 



Permit a parting word or two — 

'T is the last time I '11 trouble you :- — 

Perhaps t' were not amiss to state 
What has befallen me of late ; 
Some one would cast me in a strait — 

If so he could, 
Because I will not trudge the gait 

He wants I should. 

But softly, sage one, if you please ! 
I 'm not the one for you to tease ; 
I give your fury to the breeze, 

To moles and bats ; 
You may catch rats with toasted cheese — 

Not cheese with rats ! 

Were it not better had we fewer 
Such irritable ones as you are 1 
I preached a sermon from the Scripture 

With proper text ; 
And tho' 't was done with motives pure, 

You 're sorely vexed. 

And was it then addressed to you ? 
There is a proverb, and 't is true, 
That none can feel the pinching shoe 

Save those who wear it ; 
And how it felt you doubtless knew 

And could 'nt bear it. 

With you there must be something ill 
That you should of your own free will 
Administer yourself the pill— 

May it relieve you ! 
And all the charges in my bill 

I free forgive you. 



POEMS. 168 

DAY DREAMS— NO FICTION * 

I. 

Some visions I have lately had — 

(Dreams ever are my teachers) — 
They tell me men are running mad, 

And women turning preachers. 
Since days of Bible rule are o'er, 

1 venture the assertion, 
Ye '11 read above the chapel door, 

Souls taken jor conversion. 

In full, some day. 

II. 

Men, like a flock of hungry sheep 

When one goes out to feed them, 
Beset their feeder in a heap 

Wherever he may lead them. 
Take from the scaffold or the bay, 

But get a pitch-fork full ; 
The one is "stubble, wood and hay," 

The other nigger's wool, 

And black, this day. 

III. 

It matters not how gross the food, 

So long as it be new ; 
If swallowed soon it may be good, 

'T will never do to chew. 
If one not overfast with haste 

Should ruminate it long, 
He 5 d find, besides a sickish taste, 

It savored something strong, 

I think, to-day. 

*Note. — The manner of adding the short BAY line at the 
end of eaph stanza is borrowed from BuRirg' 'Holy Fair,' 'Or- 
dination,' &c. it being more expressive of the subjfct than a- 
n\ other measure. 



164 POEMS, 

IV. 

Some wax so hot with pious zeal, 

It makes their faces glister ; 
Query — might they not better feel 

To shave the head and blister ? 
This treatment of humanity 

Is said to bring relief 
To those whose sail of sanity 

Is taken in a reef, 

Some breezy day. 

V. 

The many wonders of the day 

Are not those of creation ; 
E'en Beelzebub has learned to pray 5 

But drives his old vocation ! 
How oft ye '11 mind the fervent saint 

Within the house of prayer ; 
Bat free him once from its restraint, 

He '11 make the devil stare, 

Amazed, some day ! 

VI. 

'T is strange to see the modest fair, 

Sweet as the dews of Hermon, 
Call for a blush-provoking prayer, 

Or brothel-gendered sermon. 
'Tis strange to hear some folks at least 

'Bout southern bondage rave, 
Who more abuse their working beast 

Than planter does his slave, 
On any day. 

VII. 

Ye Radicals ! fall well I know 

I win from you no bays ; 
I scruple not to tell you so, 

And leave you to your ways. 



POEMS. 165 

And you provoke a vulgar verse, 

My fire-brand-dealing brother ! 
'T is not for me to **** *##* **** 

And lay it to another, 

Off-hand, some day, 
VIII. 
But Heaven long preserve the salt 

That yet preserves this valley ! 
Your father's ancient crest exalt 

And round the symbol rally ; 
And let your saving power be felt, 

And let your light be seen, 
And take old measures in your belt, 

Good order in your mien — 

Ye '11 win the day, 

IX. 

Ye modest daughters of the vale, 

I hail you like a brother ! 
Wherein is different from the male 

The politician mother 1 
To modesty, that brilliant prize, 

The woman has pre-emption, 
But if she holds not what she buys 

It flies beyond redemption 

On future day. 

X. 
But ye who still possess the same, 

Endeavor to preserve it ; 
*T is well to have a goodly name, 

5 T is better to deserve it. 
So may your joys be multiplied, 
Your fondest hopes increase, 
Your measured moments sweetly glide 
And all your "paths be peace," 

And lead to day I 
14 



166 POEMS. 



ODE TO ADVERSITY. 

1. 

Oh, power, all-dreaded and severe ! 
Forever shunned, yet ever near — 

Fast following as I fly ! 
Come if thou wilt, I fly no more, 
I give the race despairing o'er, 

And meet thee eye to eye. 
No mercy I expect from thee, 
For thou hast none to give ; 
I either win the victory, 
Or fighting cease to live. 

If strife lasts while life lasts, 

A grim ally is near ; 
Tho' 't is said that his aid 
Is what full many fear. 

11, 

Between two mighty powers I stand. 
The one with cold oppressive hand 

Deals heavily the blow ; 
The other opes his friendly arms, 
But, oh ! I tremble with alarms — 

He, too, may prove a foe ! 
But Hope soft whispers in my ear : 

Bide his embrace, she saith ; 
Those most oppressed with troubles here 
Most happy are in death. 

Then tearless, and fearless,, 

Adversity I brave ; 
No foe more, no wo more 
In the oblivious grave ! 



POEMS. 167 

THE INDIAN GONE ! 

By night I saw the Hunter's moon 

Slow gliding in the placid sky ; 
Her lustre mocked the sun at noon — 

I asked myself the reason why ? 
And straightway came the sad reply : 

She shines as she was wont to do 
To aid the Indian's aiming eye, 

When by her light he strung his bow, 
But where is he ? 

Beside the ancient flood I strayed, 

Where dark traditions mark the shore ; 
With wizzard vision I essayed 

Into the misty past to pore. 
I heard a mournful voice deplore 
The perfidy that slew his race ; 
*T was in a dialect of yore, 
And of a long-departed race. 
It answered me ! 

I wrought with ardor at the plough 

One smoky Indian-summer day ; 
The dank locks swept my heated brow, 

I bade the panting oxen stay. 
Beneath me in the furrow lay 

A relic of the chase, full low ; 
I brushed the crumbling soil away — 

The Indian fashioned it, I know, 
But where is he ? 

When pheasants drumming in the wood 

Allured me forth my aim to try, 
Amid the forest lone I stood, 

And the dead leaves went rustling by. 
The breeze played in the branches high ; 

Slow music filled my listening ear ; 



168 POEMS. 



It was a wailing funeral cry, 

For Nature mourned her children dear. 
It answered me ! 



TO MY FIDDLE. 

Come to my arms my ancient shell ! 
To say the least I love thee well, 
For Music loves in thee to dwell— 

Her best retreat ; 
Thy trembling chords, when stricken, tell 

Her voice is sweet. 

Of beauty thou hast none to boast, 
For all thou 'st had is ever lost ; 
Age aye is purchased at the cost 

Of wear and tear ; 
But still thou 'rt better than the most 

Of fiddles are. 

Tho' Time has marked thee with his tooth, 
If faded beauty speaks the truth, 
That thou wast handsome in thy youth 

Is plain to me ; 
And what is more, you came, forsooth, 
From o'er the sea. 

My fancy now is taking wings : 
Changes are thine, like other things ; 
Perhaps you ? ve calmed for crowned kings 
Their mighty cares ; 
Perhaps some beggar o'er thy strings 

Has scraped his airs. 

Perhaps within the crowded hall 
You 've led the mazes of the ball, 



1>0EM9. 169 

And with your numbers held in thrall 

The music-bound ; 

While listening roof and echoing wall 

Gave back the sound. 

Or else within the humble shed 
The poor man's ears you 've haply fed ; 
And while the swift-winged moments sped 

Unheeded by, 
You 've laid him on his cheerless bed 

And closed his eye. 

But, tell me, hast thou ever found, 
In all thy wide-extended round, 
The bard, whose very soul was sound — 

Deep-toned, yet sweet? 
If so, my fancy 'lights to ground, 

And bares her feet. 

Not that she grovels here below ; 
Not that she fears to fly — ah, no ! 
Her pinions never weary grow ; 

She rests her flight 
To see thy sympathising bow 

Flounce with delight ! 

But cease your minstrelsy, I pray, — 
Your merry notes a moment stay ! 
The son of song is oft at bay 

With vengeful pack 
That follow greedily their prey 

O'er life's wild track. 

But when most eager to devour, 
Thou dost possess the gentler power 
To turn aside the gloomy hour, 

And let it pass ; 
14* 



170 POEMS. 



Then see aloof the hell-hounds scour 

In one dark mass S 

Oft when the toilsome day is done, 
And faintly sinks the summer sun. 
How smoothly do the moments run, 

Like drops of oil, 
When to thy soft and mellow tone 
I give my toil ! 

When blustering Winter, loud and bleak, 
O'er passive Nature deals his wreak, 
5 T is sweet the chimney-nook to seek, 

¥/ith thee before, 
And drown the whistling tempest's shriek 

Without the door ! 

But, oh ! 't is graven on my heart, 
That thou and I one day must part ; 
Death with his ever -sharpened dart 

Will cut the tie ; 
For never yet has human art 

Learn' d not to die. 

Who then shall wake thy plaintive strain, 
And hear thee tenderly complain 
For him who sang to thee ? I fain 

Would thou might tell. 
I 'd charge him o'er and o'er again 

To use thee well ! 



POEMS. 171 



WINTER. 

— Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro 5 the sky, 

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. — Burks 

Winter, thou type of hoary age, 
Chill-shivering in thy peevish rage ! 
In Nature's book the whitest page — 
" The final leaf, 
O'er which the moralizing sage 

May pore his grief! 

I view thee with a placid eye, 
As one beholds his destiny 
Without the power therefrom to fly, 

Had he the will ; 
I view thy sun-forsaken sky, 

And aspect chill. 

I view thee fast in sullen chains, 
Forged where the icy monarch reigns 
O'er dreary Greenland's drifted plains 

Of lasting snows ; 
I view thy horrifying pains, 

And mighty throes. 

I listen Boreas' sounding key, 
And mark the smothering tempest flee, 
Wild-wreathing over shrub and tree 

The wildering drift ; 
And thro' the roof of Poverty 

Still-falling sift. 

Oh, bitter power! I beg thee spare 
The famished wretch, whose feeble prayer, 
Moaned from the fit abode of care- 
Wan Mis'ry's den^ 



172 POEMS. 

Tells of the cold unfeeling air 

Of brother men. 

Ye fostered sons of sordid ease ! 
Whose chilling selfishness would freeze 
The generous heart ! — would ye appease 

The troubled breast? 
Does rigid Conscience never seize 

Hold on your rest 1 

Has never willing Fancy led 
You from your tables richly spread, 
Where Luxury heaps up her bread, 

And Plenty carves, 
To where, by pitying hand unfed, 

Pale Famine starves ? 

Has never thoughtful Pity laid 
Her hand upon your hearts, and bade 
You look from where, in wealth arrayed, 

Warm Comfort shines, 
To where, o'er embers half-decayed, 

Want shivering pines? 

Oh ! let it move your hearts of stone 
To hear the widow'd mother's moan, 
And starving orphans, all as one, 

Loud-wailing cry ! 
For haply ye may still the groan, 

And sobbing sigh. 

Lo ! in yon savage wilds afar, 
Where Nature's suffering orphans are, 
Who wage with Fate eternal war* — 

Who knows their wo, 

•"And waged with Fortune an eternal war." — 

Beat-tie's Minstrel. 



POEMS. 178 

Or sees the deep disfiguring scar — 

The ill-healed blow ? 

O Winter, bear their woes in mind ! 
Deal not on them thy fury blind ; 
Extermination sure will find 

In them a prey 
When e'en thy cold and cutting wind 
Bears them away. 

If happiness on earth be found 
Sure 't is by him who tills the ground ; 
For whom in one mysterious round 

Revolves the year, 
And wheels thro' boundless space profound 

This wondrous sphere. 

When night's black curtains, wide unroll'd, 
The hemisphere in darkness hold, 
He hears the tempest driving cold, 

Yet harmless by, 
E'en to his flocks that in the fold 

Close-huddling lie. 

For him returns light-hearted Spring, 
With richest flowers gay blossoming ; 
For him the little songsters sing 

Sweet in the bough, 
And hail him blithe on flitting wing, 

Above the plough. 

For him the Summer suns return, 
And thro' the fiery solstice burn ; 
For him does vegetation spurn 

The lowly earth— 
The juicy briar and scented fern, 

Of earliest birth, 



174 POEMS. 

For him does ripened Autumn come, 
Rejoicing in the harvest-home, 
And tankards crowned with hoary foam, 

Foretokening cheer ; 
Out-spreading from her airy loom 

Her carpet sere. 

On him wild Winter angry beats 
With blinding snows and piercing sleets ; 
But, oh, with what true joy he greets 

'The fireside bright, 
When day before dark night retreats, 

In sore affright ! 

Oh ! had I as the will the means 
To paint how well the fireside screens 
The soul enamored of its scenes, 

From world's mad hive ; 
How Memory o'er the hearth-stone leans 

Contemplative. 

How there domestic bliss invites ; 
How Fancy wings from thence her flights, 
And thro* some far-off land incites 

The mind to roam, 
Yet always from her tour alights, 

More pleased with home. 

Away with pomp and kingly pride ! 
Far hence in moody hauteur stride ; 
Your furry vestments, best applied, 

Are put to shame, 
When in the cotters chimney wide 

Roars the red flame. 

Before the hearth, encircled half, 
Now social mirth excites the laugh ; 



POEMS. 175 



Or grey-haired age with well-worn staff 
Points back afar, 

And says his days have flown like chaff, 

He knows not where. 

He tells the tale of olden time, 
When he was young or in his prime ; 
The moral points the road to crime, 

And at the end 
The ladder which the wretch must climb 

And hell-ward wend. 

The firm division line he draws 
^Twixt Vice unyoked and Virtue's laws ; 
Shows what a pit-fall faithless straws 

May oft times hide, 
When 'neath our feet dread Ruin's jaws 

Gape black and wide. 

By turns the group aloud peruse 
The weekly magazine of news ; 
Or to the scene-enamored Muse 

List while she sings ; 
Or see in history's faithful views 

Time's hidden things. 

Perhaps a neighbor happens in, 
With cronies dear his yams to spin ; 
Perchance the burnished windows win 

The powdered form 
Of traveller, from the mingled din 

Of wind and storm. 

He tells the perils of the day ; 
How far he missed the proper way, 
And wandered many a mile astray 

From the right road, 



176 POEMS. 



While sore fatigue upon him lay — 

A grevious load. 

He brings the news from distant town ; 
How rents are up and stocks are down ; 
How politics have recent grown 

Wild with discord ;— 
Till see ! the wholesome viands crown 

The oaken board, 

O, hospitality sincere ! 
Thou dryer of the bitter tear 
Which cold Misfortune's wind severe 

Brings in the eye ! 
Thine is a heart-ease far too dear 

For wealth to buy. 

Haply the bard of thee who sings, 
Amid his weary wanderings, 
Has found thee — not in courts of kings, 

Nor halls of pride, 
From whence proud wealth, all-potent 5 flings 

Dominion wide ; 

No ! — in the homely cottage pale 
You welcomed him with hearty hail, 
And did officiously regale 

Him on the best ; 
And showed him, wearied in the trail y 

A place of rest. 

But hark ! the time-piece chimes the hour, 
When Morpheus, with acknowledged power, 
Bears to his dream-bewildered bower 

The minds of men, 
Till Phoebus gives Aurora's dower 

To morn again. 



POEMS. 17/ 

Now each suspends his evening care 
While heaven-ward goes the fervent prayer ; 
In blessings sought is sure to share 

The stranger guest ; 
Then to their couches they repair, 

And not unblest ! 

Winter, of thee the Muse is proud; 
E'en when you wake the tempest loud, 
And demons in a bellowing crowd 

At midnight run ; 
Or glimmers thro' the leaden cloud 

The tarnished sun. 

When morn again unfolds to view 
The cheerless wastes of deathly hue ; 
When the choked rill, the deep drifts thro 5 , 

Hoarse-gurgling runs, 
And seems with feeling man to sue 

For genial suns — 

'T is oft of life a striking scene ! 
But Spring with soul-enlivening mien 
Ere long will clothe the earth in green, 

And free the brook. 
Then, mortal, here a lesson glean, 

And forward look. 



15 



178 POEMS. 

"MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAM." 

Most humbly dedicated to — — — — . 

T was at the close of Summer day 
When Sirius holds a baneful sway ; 
When thunder-gusts full frequent fly 
And wrathful thro' the sultry sky ; 
When copious showers of tepid rain 
Drench oft the fervid glittering plain — 
The scene occurred which I disclose. 
Believe or not, just as you choose. 

Intent the silver-eel to take, 
I hied me to a neighboring lake. 
An old tree root, the winds had felled, 
My form in careless posture held ; 
And smothered in a tempting show, 
I cast the baited hook below. 
The dripping moon,* whose dubious look 
Pale mirrored in the sluggish brook, 
Appeared awhile, now fled her post, 
And 'neath the veil of night was lost. 
List'ning the hoarse discordant scream 
That rose beside the evening stream — 
Sounds which might puzzle one to tell 
Who made them all, this side of hell — 
Musquitoes, whose delightful buzz 
Might e'en provoke the man of Uz — 
Bull-frogs of every voice and tone 
From shrilly peep to doleful groan ; 
While from the top of neighboring tree 
An owlet screeched a symphony — 

*A sign of rainy weather in New-England, derived from the 
ancient Indian tribes, is the appearance of the new moon, viz: 
when its horns are blunt, and its shape is such (to use the In- 
dian expression) that it will not €, hold water." 



POEMS. 179 

Such sounds, too, as, I am thinking, 
Set your fisherman to winking ; 
For music, tho' it opes the ears. 
Oft shuts the eyes of him who hears. 

All of a sudden, as we say, 
Just along shore a little way, 
Reclined upon the slimy bank, 
Appeared a figure, long and lank. 
He held a rod of extra length, 
Made less for beauty than for strength ; 
His line was such as hangmen use 
To knot the neck-cloth slippernoose ; 
His hook was made of golden wedge, 
And fashioned like a fluked kedge ; 
For baits he used as many kinds 
As were his fish of different minds — 
(Not that small fry have minds, but then 
What may he use who catches men ?) 
Beside him stood a basket large 
In which to stow his luckless charge. 

O, for a sheet of heavy fold, 
As strong as trunk of oak unrolled ! 
O, that a pen of mountain pine, 
And strength to wield the same were mine ! 
And ink black-mixed in vasty tub, 
To write the name of Beelzebub ! 
None other was the graceless wight 
Was seen to angle there night. 

Rhymus, what would have been your case 
That night, had you been in my place % 
Instead of facing your old master, 
Your coward shanks would borne you faster, 
And not the less against your will 



180 POEMS. 

Than ran the rogues at Springfield hill* 
Methought I 'd stay old Nick to watch, 
To see what sort of fry he 'd catch ; 
Without the power, if not the wish, 
To spare you from the list offish. 

He tied a rag of super cloth 
With shining web of silken moth 
Around his hook, and thus equipped 
His line within the flood he* dipped. 
But scarce his hook was out of sight 
Before, it seemed, he felt a bite ; 
And drawing up again his line, 
His luck proved better much than mine. 
One thing was something strange to see : 
As soon as e'er his fish were free 
From out the water, they appeared 
No more the scaly things he reared ; 
From nosle to the end of spine 
They wore the "human look divine." 
The present fish that he had caught 
Was but a trifling thing of nought — 
Such as along a city's walks 
With consequential bearing stalks ; 
Who to a tailor's arts and dresses 
Owes every thing that he possesses. 
Nick never deigned a word on him 
Of puny soul and ratan limb ; 
For ere he looked upon his face 
He knew the worthless minim dace 
Was only fit for making bait ; 
And so consigned him to his fate. 

*The discomfiture of the rebels during the Shays insurrection 
at. the arsenal hill in Old Springfield, The story is told of one 
man who ran thirty miles 9 with only an occasional stopping to 
take breath. 



POEMS. 181 

Upon his hook he kept the wretch, 
And cast, another fish to catch. 

A greedy pike was darting by, 
With hungry jaw and eager eye ; 
He saw the game on which to sup, 
And in a moment snatched it up. 
Nick with the barb-inflicting twitch 
Took in his gills a cruel stitch ; 
And as he seized the rav'nous pike, 
In tone of voice not much unlike 
The sound of smv-mill in full motion, 
He thus accused him of devotion : 

"How now ! you old extortioner ! 
D' ye take me for a foreigner ? 
We've been acquainted many years \ 

You braying ass without his ears ! > 

I 've thought to settle our arrears ; J 

You 've grown so proud of purse of late, 
No honest de'il can longer wait ; 
Besides, you 've aped me in my power, 
By seeking whom you might devour ; 
You 've wronged the poor man of his rights ; 
You 've even stol'n the widow's mites ; 
And what else I could quickly tell 
Had I my log-book here from hell ; 
I 've got all fairly noted there — 
To see the same would make you swear ; 
And as the prince of de'ils I am, 
I '11 hark awhile and hear you damn!" 
He said, and with infernal grin 
His basket ope'd, and thrust him in. 
I noticed as the lid he raised, 
The brimstone flame beneath it blazed ! 

A bull-head was the next he took. 
15* 



182 toems. 

The groper bit the naked hook ! 
Old Satan grinned another smile, 
And thus delighted him awhile : 

"Old churl, I know you to the letter ! 
If I mistake not you're my debtor. 
A writing for your soul I hold, 
The price of which was paid in gold ; 
But you were made of horse-leech stuff, 
And never knew you had enough, 
But you must cry for more, until 
I reckon now you '11 get your fill. 
But what avail your hoarded riches ? 
They '11 go 'mongst worthless rakes and b- 
And since I have you in my clutches, 
I '11 prop you with a pair of crutches ; 
And you may figure on my floor 
Till you can foot my ancient score." 
He spoke, and 'neath the basket lid 
The poor old selfish miser hid. 

With a Bible leaf he baited next, 
Well filled with many a pious text. 
An eel observed the piece of writ 
And quick enough he swallowed it ; 
Which done, he thought to bolt away— 
But Beehe thought he 'd better stay. 

"You slippery dog !" quoth he, "I knew 
What baits of all best suited you. 
I 've seen you often read the book, 
With sack-cloth face and solemn look ; 
But never saw you read alone — 
'T was when some one was looking on. 
I 've minded you full oft at meeting, 
To give you there a hearty greeting ; 
I 've heard your lips appear to pray 
The devil's kingdom might decay, 



POEMS. 183 

-. . m - . . . i . , «■ ■ i. H i| — ml. 

But I 've to thank you for your zeal 

Foremost in furthering my weal ; 

I 've seen you lack the wants of life, 

And even starve your suffering wife, 

But give abroad — you knew not where — 

Whate'er your niggard fist could spare ; 

I 've seen you grieve for other's woes, 

While the poor beast beneath your blows 

Has cried like Balaam's ass aloud, 

Below your cruel burdens bowed ! 

I '11 roast you on my forked spit, 

You old consistent hypocrite !" 

The wretch, with loud heart-rending screech 

Was soon beyond all human reach ! 

Then with another smile infernal 
The devil took a certain Journal 
And fixed it on his hook for bait ; 
Nor did he long for nibblers wait. 
One of those things which wear a shell, 
That half their time in water dwell — 
The snapping kind, famed for their spite, 
Was nothing loath, it seemed, to bite. 
As soon as e'er it came afloat, 
Behold, it wore & petticoat ! 
Faith ! there was nothing soft and tender 
By which to designate her gender, 
And nothing but the coats she wore 
Removed my doubts on that same score. 

"Madam, I hope I see you well !" 
Exclaimed the grinning imp of hell. 
"But you must know that moral journal 
Is what I wish to have diurnal, 
And o'er the country wide extend, 
For I 'm the gainer in the end." 



184 POEMS. 

Her fiery visage 'gan to bleach. 
Quoth she, "I hold to right of speech; 
I follow not the Bible rule, 
And think I '11 mum to you, old fool ! 
Have n't I left ray fireside dear 
To spread my scandals far and near ? 
Have n't I fired with zealous rage j 

When Wisdom pointed rne to age, / 

And to the apostolic page ? ) 

Have n't I wished to cast aloof 
The woman's limb-encumbering woof, 
And wear the breeks like any man ? 
Deny it, devil, if you can !" 

"Softly, my dear !" observed the devil, 
(And seized her nearabout the navel,) 
"You 've done all this, I '11 not deny— 
Or rather it was you and I. 
Some things you 've done in boiling blood, 
And thought that you was doing good ; 
But let me whisper in your ear, 
Your mind was very far from clear. 
Ignorance of the law, we read, 
Is no excuse for evil deed ; 
And since you 're fond of so much fire, 
You '11 have it to your heart's desire. 
I '11 show you where we roast the wight, 
And never rake the fire at night." 

Old Nick got up and took his spawn, 
And in a thunder-peal was gone ! 
It fairly made the tree roots shake, 
And stirred the water in the lake. 
Some eel, I found, had got my line — 
No longer was the tackle mine. 
I '11 go and give those fish a warning, 
Thought I, as soon as dawns the morning ; 



POEMS. 185 

And tell them, ere it is too late, 
Be careful how they take the bait. 
The hook will prick them, bye and bye, 
And Satan then will have a fry. 
And you, good soul, to whom I write, 
Think of the jish were caught that night! 



INFERIOR ANIMALS AFFORD INSTRUCTION TO MAN. 

As the loquacious geese upon the wing, 
Evading labor, never cease to sing ; 
As the poor bee, half-drowned in soaking rain, 
Dries his wet wing and buzzes forth again ; 
As the good dog obeys his master's will, 
Thro J good and evil his companion still ; 
As the meek lamb, beneath the butcher's knife, 
In conscious innocence resigns its life — 
So, man, on thee when life's hard labors press, 
Let your heart sing, and make the burden less. 
When Mischief's ill-brewed rains have drenched 

it thro', 
Dry your wet cloak and brave the storm anew. 
From your own dog a golden lesson learn, 
And ne'er to sacred friendship traitor turn. 
When death shall lift his hand to give the blow, 
Look in his face and unresisting go ! 



186 POEMS. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MINSTREL SWAN. 

March, 1838. 

My minstrel brother, thou whose soul 
Genius delighted to enroll 
Upon her wonder-beaming scroll— 

A favored token- 
Long may with thee life's golden bowl 

Remain unbroken ! 

Your recent gift* I value much ; 
A treasure \ is — and, sir, as such 
I '11 keep it, tho' old age should clutch 

Me, bye and bye, 
Tho' groping with a beggar's crutch, 

Or blind-man's eye. 

Of all the strains that ever flowed 
From Music's Helicon abode,! 
Since Tubal-Cain his fiddle showedf 

And drew the bow, 
Give me the plaintive minor mode, 

Soft moving, slow ! 

Your plaintive airs my mind enthrall, 
As once in Israel's kingly hall 
Did minstrel notes becalm old Saul, 

When he was crazy ; — 
But China, chief among them all, 

How shall I praise thee ! ' 



*This gift was a volume of music called "New-England Har- 
irony," containing a valuable collection of ancient church airs, 
of which Mr. Swan was the composer. 

fHelicon — a mountain in Boeotia, on which stood a temple de- 
dicated to the Muses; from whence flowed the spring Hippocre- ' 
ne, also sacred to the fabled Nine. 

£The invention of instrumental music is ascribed to Tubal- 
Cain. 



POEMS. l£/ 

I wish that raven-tutored wight 
Who croaked to death my favorite* 
Was fastened on, some winter night, 

The old French King; f 
His voice would deepen, that he might 

The true bass sing. 

He 's pitched it now upon a key 
He calls a kind of harmony ; 
But you and I must disagree, 

And make discord ; 
The tune he sings is new to me, 

Upon my word ! 

Sir, 'tis a great, a mighty pity, 
One worthy of a mournful ditty, 
That some, so overwise and witty — 

(Excuse the rhyme) — 
Should call the humdrums of a city 

Music sublime. 

There 's scarce a chorister who dares 
Attune those ancient country airs 
That in unknown, oblivious lairs 

Lie languishing ; 
Which, when one hears, he feels his cares 

Evanishing. 

And is it unimportant whether 
We lose our main-stays altogether 1 
We'll take discernment for a tether, 

And make them fast ; 

*Some wiseacre has introduced China into a recent collec- 
tion of music, and undertaken to harmonize it. The tune 
;au hardly be recognized by those who admired it in its old form 
—the bass staff especially being totally different. 

t A famous rock in the midst of the Connecticut, a short dis- 
ance below Templeton's ferry, GilL 



188 POEMS. 

And when again it comes fair weather, 
We '11 have a mast. 

Without a standard which can guide us, 
In every thing will wo betide us ; 
Wisdom will scornfully deride us, 

And mock our fate ; 
And Conscience, too, may often chide us y 

But oft too late, 

Swan, when within the grave you rest, 
You '11 leave the world a rich bequest ; 
Thou oft shalt be the bosom's guest, 

In time to come, 
For Music in thy tuneful breast 

Had sure a home. 

I 'm told the Muse is sometimes near 
To him whom Music loves so dear ; 
You need not have the slightest fear 

That I dispute it ; 
The two are twins, and none appear 

Who will confute it. 

You 've had it, too, in contemplation 
To put me under obligation 
By showing me your conversation 

With her at leisure ; 
I need not add my approbation 

Of such a measure. 

An' gif ye hae no gat aboon 
Pitting your lallan harp in tune, 
Just weave a sang — if but a roon, 

The deil-ma-care ! 
Nae doubt 't will steek my namely croon. 

If naething mair. 



POEMS. 189 

Leeze me on Scotia, honored isle ! 
Tho' distant mony a wearie mile, 
Tho' ocean's waves atween us boil 

Wi 5 frightfu' roar, 
Wi' winged Fancy aft the while 

I seek her shore. 

Wow ! 't is na wholly fancy either \ 
There is a sort o' kindred tether 
That hauds us fast to ane anither, 

I maun declare ; 
She is mv carlin great grand-mither — 
Her fa' be fair ! 

Auld frin', I rede ye now take heed 
I canna write but I can read 
Broad Scottish lallans — so "Gude speed" 

Your cornin' letter ! 
An* gif I canna get remead, 

I '11 be your debtor.* 

For one to live when hope is dead, 
And horrors blacken round his head ; 
When Reason's brilliant light has fled 

Like thawing snow-trails ; 
And, what is worse, till he has shed 

His teeth and toe-nails — 

Is living longer, I opine, 
Than suits our natural design ; 
But may you leave life's boundary line 
Not over fast ; 

♦Mr. Swan, who is of Scottish descent, had it in contempla- 
tion to answer the author's first epistle, in Scotch verse; but 
was deterred therefrom, thinking it would be unintelligible. — 
The reason of the four foregoing verses being in immltation of 
broad lallans (Scotch dialect) will be readily understood by the 
intelligent reader. 



190 POEMS. 

And in your first endowments shine 

Bright to the last 1 

Hale be thy ancient harp till then, 
Thou one among a host of men ! 
May heaven for thy future ken 

Be music planning ! 
Meantime, your servant, with the pen-*— 
Josiah Canning. 



TO TOBACCO. 

Let spleeny mopers fume and fret 
Till every pore distils the sweat ; 
Let Opposition's fostered pet, 

The blue-faced Anti, 
Condemn thee till his reason get 

In Bedlam's shanty— 

What matters it how much they mock ? 
I would not give for all their talk 
A famous Old Virginia stalk — 

The plant so rare ! 
I 'd sooner take a piece of chalk 

To cut my hair ! 

Oh thou much-loved, much-hated weed ! 
Why first did Nature sow thy seed 
Were 't not that man might have the need 

Some time to use thee ? 
Who thinks of this will sure take heed 

How he abuse thee. 

To note thy virtues, one and all, — 
(The which are neither few nor small) 



POEMS. 191 

I 'd have to search and overhaul 

Newspaper sheets, 

And ransack cupboard, shelf, and wall 
For old receipts, 

To sum thy virtues all en masse, 
We '11 call thee good, and let thee pass ; 
Those who would not, may "go to grass 

And feed on mullen;" 
Excepting, always, bonny lass, 

More sick than sullen, 

I 've heard old chroniclers relate, 
In blue-law days in neighbor state 
'T was e'en a crime — if not so great 

As theft or rape — 
To use the icecd, at any rate, 

In any shape. 

Whoever made a pipe to reek ; 
Whoever stowed within his cheek 
The article of which we speak, 

Was but a w r retch ! 
And Justice pounced with open beak, 

Her prey to catch. 

Justice ! — excuse the muse's lies 
When humbly she for pardon cries ! 
'T was but the serpent in disguise. 

We know full well 
He oft deceives our simple eyes, 

Since Adamjfe#. 

We've moderns, now, who doubtless yearn 
To have the blue-law days return; 
They 'd better be a fishing hern 

And wade in ditches; 



192 POEMS. 

For who can tell but that they 'd burn 

For broomstick witches ? 

Here let me pause. My pen I '11 wipe 
And take instead the fragrant pipe ; 
A whiff or two and I '11 be ripe 

For writing more ; 
The muse has giv'n my hand a gripe, 

And ope'd the door* 

Who may not sing, may surely croak ; 
So here 's with pen a parting stroke — 
See, life itself is but a joke,* 

And so is care ! 
They '11 vanish like tobacco smoke 
In empty air. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A BIBLE. 

Dread volume of inspired truth ! 
The staff of age, the guide of youth. 
Thou best of books — of books most true, 
Forever showing something new. 
Happy the man thy counsels hears, 
And reads thee carefully with tears! 
Ill-fated he who spurns thy page, 
Blind with hell's glare and impious rage! 
Without thy principles to guide, 
Afloat on passion's headlong tide, 
He 's like the vane a steeple shows, 
Veering to every wind that blows. 

♦Generally a severe one, however. 



POEMS. 193 

MONODY, 

Written in a Grave-yard. 

Turn, pilgrim, from the great highway ! 
Within this pale a moment stay 

Your wild career ! 
Think, mortal, what it is to die — 
A frigid corse outstretched to lie 

On Death's cold bier. 

Think of the dark and unseen end 
To which your hasting footsteps tend — 

Yea, pause and think ! 
A precipice may yawn before — 
Perhaps your feet are even o'er 

The crumbling brink! 

Life is at best a transient gleam 
Of sunlight on a ruffled stream — 

J T is quickly gone ! 
And tending to a mighty fall, 
The sweeping flood, engulphing all, 

Steals darkly on. 

'T is like a merry tale, well told, 
When pleasant friends communion hold 

With bosom friends ; 
The voice of mirth that fills the ear — 
Itself well-pleased, well-ope'd to hear — 

In silence ends. 

Hope, fondest, brightest dream of man! 
Embrace thee in his arms who can, 

Dear phantom fair ! 
Thou form illusive to the sight, 
Sprung from the beaming fount of light, 

On wings of air ! 



194 POEMS. . 

How oft along life's rugged road 
You ease the pilgrim of his load, 

And hide his doom ! 
The while as distant as the star 
That glimmers faintly from afar, 

'Mid evening's gloom. 

'T is only o'er the gloomy grave 
Thy flame phosphoric shines to save, 

With ray serene ; 
Steer for it, pilgrim, full of cheer ; 
Carry your helm exempt from fear, 

With conscience clean. 

Mankind — how varied is the race ! 
How different are the forms we trace 

O'er world's wide stage ! 
The nursling's tender fragile form, 
The full grown man with vigor warm, 

And tottering age. 

Some like the wanton butterfly, 
On mealy wings of gaudy dye, 

Flit life away ; 
How false the coloring they show ! 
How useless ! and when tempests blGw ; 

How weak are they ! 

Some like the wolf in ambush lie 
To tear the careless passer by, 

When none can help ; , 
The slanderer plays his subtle game, 
In heart, if not in form the same— 

The hell-born whelp ! 

Some like the lofty, noble pine, 
Stand firm on Error's dark confine. 
To winds a prey ; 



POEMS. 195 

Firm to the last it bides the shock 
That makes the lesser structures rock, 
And spreads dismay. 

Perchance the lightning's vivid chain 
Shivers the stately tree in twain, 

And mars its form ; 
Genius, such fate is often thine ! 
I liken thee to mountain pine 

Rent by the storm. 

But, pilgrim, to the grave at last, 
Like leaves before a nipping blast, 

Men crowding come ; 
This earth, with all its "lights and shades/' 
Its beetling crags and sunny glades, 

Is not their home. 

Where is it then ? Death only knows. 
The Holy Writ the pathway shows — 

Walk thou therein ; 
Fear not to take it for a guide, 
And hasten o'er, with rapid stride, 

The wilds of sin. 

Its precepts treasure in your heart ; 
Act well and faithfully your part, 

And bide the test ; 
And for a future home you have 
Its promise — beyond the grave 

A heaven of rest. 



196 POEMS. 

TO A BLACKBIRD, 

Singing in the morning on the Ides of March. 

Thou seeming merry, tuneful thing, 
That hail' st for me the early spring ! 
Hast thou no cause for sorrowing 

At such a scene ? 
Or dost thou rouse thyself to sing, 

Thy grief to screen ? 

And dost thou see without alarm 
Far in the north the gathering storm ? 
Unmindful of thy fragile form, 

'T will beat on thee ! 
And where 's thy sheltering covert warm, 
To which to flee ? 

Across the chequered fields of snow 
The visage-blackening breezes blow ; 
And vegetation lies below 

Its winter hood ! 
Then where, poor starveling, wilt thou go 
To seek thy food ? 

Or dost thou live and never think 
About to-morrow's meat and drink ? 
Is hope the sole connecting link 

Binds thee to life ? 
Alas ! without it man would sink 

When ruin *s rife ! 

Thy cheer, despite thy gloomy case, 
Is like to some of human race ; 
How oft do smiles illume the face, 

And smiles impart, 
When in its secret hiding place 

Stern is the heart ! 



POEMS. 197 



For one who has the heart to do, 
Far better is it thus to show 
A cheerful look when worn with wo, 

And cankering ill. 
5 T will make his progress calm and slow 

In life's down-hill. 

Oh, heaven, bestow the gracious gift 1 
Man's heart above his sorrows lift, 
Cast dark despondency adrift 

In floods of light, 
And give the gloomy veil a rift 

■ That clouds his sight. 

Give him a hope that shall not fail ; 
And when life's winter-giving gale 
Shall in his ears a requiem wail — 

Like yon sweet thing, 
He '11 with prophetic vision hail 

Eternal Spring. 



VERSES TO AN ABORIGINAL RELIC, 

Being a carved stone, with the head of a Whale 
and the bach of a Beaver. 

Since none can inspiration bribe, 
At what deep fount shall I imbibe 
The wished-for language to inscribe 

An unsung song 
To thee, thou relic of a tribe 

Forgotten long ? 

A man, methinks, might worship thee, 
And yet preserve his conscience free 
16* 



198 POEMS. 

■■--■■ ■ . i .... . 11 .- 1 1 ■- . I - . . 1L ■ .. 

From violating wickedly 

A high command*,' 
Thou 'xt like to nothing in the sea, 

Or on the land. 

Hold, now ! — a new idea I take : 
A beaver h is, full wide awake ! 
But, Nitchiefi you forgot to make 

A broad, flat tail 
'Tis no such thing — for Jonah's sake 

We '11 call 't a whale. 

It matters, after all, no great, 
What thou wast meant to imitate ; 
You might have been, at any rate, 

A fancy sketch , 
Which Sculpture in her infant state 

Began to etch. 

Whate'er thou art, god, fish, or beast,. 
Thou art to musing minds a feast ; 
And could oblivion-searching Priest\ 

But hear about thee, 
He 'd walk a dozen miles, at least, 

Than be without thee. 

When he was told how thou wast found 
Embedded in a little mound, 
And that thy resting-place was crown'd 

By ancient pine, 
His eyes would grow with wonder round — 

With fancy shine. 

*Exodus XX. chap. 4th and 5th verses. 
fNitchie, i. e. Brother — the word used by the Indians when 
addressing one another, 

$&. celebrated antiquarian, author of American Antiquitiw.* 



POEMS. 199 

But, Time, thou old grave-digging one ! 
Thou 'st buried in oblivion 
A race, altho' themselves unknown, 

Their wrongs are not ; 
"Hicjacet^ never reads the stone 

To mark the spot. 

Can man, who flourishes to-day 
As full of mirth as merry May, 
Pass like the setting sun away — 

A phantom slow 1 
Alas ! that we can truly say, 

J T is even so ! 

And can Oblivion's caverns deep, 
Where noble minds and actions sleep, 
Where honest worth and virtue weep, 

Neglected low — 
Man's memory in durance keep ? 

'T is even so ! 

But when the light of life is killed, 
When blood of innocence is spilled, 
When man his list of crimes has filled, 

This truth impress— 
A righteous God above has willed 

To work redress. 

And now I 'm thinking, as 1 eye 
This uncooth, nameless Indian toy, 
There '11 be a solemn case to try 

Some day or other, 
When we shall face, in courts on high, 

Our poor red brother. 



200 POEMS. 

TO A WILD ROSE. 

Sweet offspring of the solitude ! 
Dost in this lonely spot elude 
The wanton gaze and notice rude 

Of vulgar eyes? 
Hear me, if on thee I intrude, 

Apologize ! — 

No rival tender-hearted fair 
Made thy young growth her willing care, 
Nor hid thee when the frosty air 

Spread winter wide ; 
Or marks thee blooming rich and rare 

In flowery pride. 

Deep in the woo Hand, wild to view, 
Fair Flora, straying, planted you ; 
Mild evening wet with gentle dew 

The teeming earth, 
And Phoebus peeped the folinge thro' 

To hail thy birth. 

Ne?.r thee in ever watchful mood 
The partridge trains her little brood, 
And pussy comes o'er many a rood, 

With dewy feet, 
To mingle with her morning food 

Thy fragrance sweet 

Emblem of innocence unstained ! 
Of blushing modesty unfeigned ! 
Hearts, ne'er by art or flatt'ry trained 

To work deceit, 
Which gladden, till of life-blood drained, 

They cease to beat. 



POEMS. 201 

Emblem of worth— (alas, how true!) 
That in retirement, veiled from view, 
Gives to its poor unnoticed few 

A conscience clean ; 
Then in the spot whereon it grew 

It dies unseen ! 



AMOR PATRIAE— A FRAGMENT. 

Dear as the life-blood of my heart, 
My native land, to me thou art ! 
And till it cease to swell my veins, 
While my last hold of life remains, 
Till my last ' 'minstrel lay" is sung 
Tiij udiiie shall dwell upon my tongue. 

What tho' imagination roam 
O'er terra's face, o'er ocean's foam, 
From where, red-streaming on their height, 
Lone Hecla's fires illume the night, 
To where mad mingling oceans span 
The Land of Fire* at Magellan 
And feeds upon the wondrous scene 
That spreads the mighty space between — 
Yet over thee her wings expand, 
My own much-loved, much-honored land, 
And, wearied, gently sink to rest 
Upon thy kindred-throbbing breast ! 

♦Terra del Fuego — the Land of Fire. 



202 POEMS. 

MORNING PRAYER 

On getting out of bed at a friend's house. 

O, Thou who made yon stream to flow, 
And spread its pleasant shore, 

Upon this house thy smile bestow, 
We pray Thee, evermore ! 

The honored sire* — the friend indeed — ■ 

Long with us may he be ! 
And never, never may he need 

To want a friend in Thee ! 

The mother shield from every ill 

Within Thy arms of love, 
And bear her safe up Zion's hill 

To Zion's courts above. 

Her daughters — richest, fairest flowers 

That in this valley grow — 
Transplant them to Thy heavenly bowers 

When they shall fade below. 

Her sons — like pillars may they stand, 

Securely strong and broad, 
An honor to their native land, 

A pleasure to their God. 

And when at last this household dear 
Shall leave this world of care, 

O, may they all in Heaven appear, 
And none be wanting there ! 



POEMS. 208 

LINES 

Addressed to a Young Lady, inclosing a volume. 

Envelop'd in this sheet I send 
A trifling token from a friend ; 
The wrapper, too, before you rend, 

A moment heed it, 
And if you have the time to spend 

Perhaps you '11 read it 

'T is not my aim to sing a song, 
Nor write a dissertation long, 
Nor ply with force the knotted thong 

Of Vengeance keen. 
Nor paint in faithful colors strong 

Some moving scene, 

A simple truth I '11 merely write. 
(Could mortals aye in truth delight, 
And could we think and act aright, 

Frail as we are, 
How little cause there 'd be for fight 

And wordy war ! 

But was the truth as easy ever 
From falsifying tongues to sever 
As that which I shall soon deliver, 

Deceit would die, 
And BeliaVs children, growing clever, 

Would scorn to lie !) 

Till Heal-alVs* gentle stream shall fail 
To join its parent in the vale, 
Or mind one of a mournful tale 

To memory dear ; 

*A never-failing rill of Indian memory, rising near ty» and 
putting into the Connecticut, from off the fighting ground at th« 
great falls, GilL 



204 POEMS. 

Till Autumn winds no more bewail 

The dying year — 

Till silent Luna shall complain 
Her lot is hard to wax and wane ; 
Yea, till the wide, unfathomed main 

Shall dry away, 
And thou shalt cease thy awful strain, 

Niagara ! — 

Till then shall Modesty secure 
Herself a praise which shall endure, 
And Virtue and Religion pure — 

Twin sisters three. 
Were't not that flattery I abjure 

I 'd speak of thee ! 

And since all flattery I discard, 
To write another verse is hard ; 
The sisters be your constant guard, 

And still thy care ! 
So prays your humble friend, the bard — 

Heaven hear his prayer 



POEMS. 205 

A POOR MAN'S EPITAPH. 

No more by Fortune's freaks abused, 
No more by brother man misused, 
No more of Folly's deeds accused — 

His actions done, 
With Nature's works no more amused, 

Here lies her son ! 

When Ruin, demon-like, assailed him 
He ne'er complained that trouble ailed him, 
For hope of heaven never failed him 

While life remained, 
And seeing Death approach, he hailed him 
With joy unfeigned. 

He 's gone of better clime in quest, 
Where all '-'the weary are at rest"; 
And said, with fears no more opprest, 

He hoped to rise 
And enter, as a welcome guest, 

In Paradise. 

Pilgrim, who strays this hillock near, 
Didst know the one who slumbers here ? 
His foibles shun with cautious fear, 

His virtues heed ; 
Yea, follow Virtue wheresoe'er 

Her steps may lead ! 



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